Where My Hand is Set, My Seal Shall Be
by MlleClaudine
Summary: Third in my series of Cophine stories exploring their relationship in the moments and scenes that take place once the cameras stop rolling. Fluffysmut, with a touch of friction and the occasional plot point, set between s02e02 and s02e03. Cosima has joined Dyad, with Delphine running interference and trying to overcome the new distance — emotional if not physical — between them.
1. Where My Hand is Set, My Seal Shall Be

As I pull the rental into a not-quite parking space in an alley off Queen Street, I glance over at the passenger side. My consort, shrouded in a plain but functional black wrap, rests uneasily, stiff and upright against only slightly yielding leather. I berate myself for not letting her repose in greater comfort in the back seat, especially as she's just arrived in town after a long trip.

Easing her out of the car, I briefly debate undressing her out here so I can introduce her to Cosima in her gloriously unclothed form, but a few fat raindrops splattering cold and heavy on my face decide me. Tucking her against my side in the instinctive embrace born of years of intimacy, I guide her up the narrow grungy stairway, through the dark graffiti'd corridor with its sickly greenish buzzing fluorescent lights and to the now familiar entrance to Felix's loft. Once again I try to suppress my irritation at the misspelling of "Galerie"; once again I am unsuccessful. I bang my fist on the huge door. After a moment, I hear the rattle of the latch, and then the rumble as the massive metal panel slides open.

Cosima has been expecting me, but not that I would not be arriving alone. Her eyebrows arch above her glasses. "Don't tell me you decided to bring along your own entertainment because you thought you'd be bored," she says languidly.

I escort my companion to the sofa, then swiftly move to gather Cosima into my arms. "Never," I murmur. Always small and slender, she feels thinner, frailer than she did since I last saw her in her nascent lab just a few days ago. Anxiously I scan her face for any signs of change. She looks a little pale; I make a mental note to pull for a CBC before I leave.

"Hey," she says softly but sternly, her voice raspy. "Stop being my doctor for a second and say hello properly."

My mouth delights in the welcome of hers, our lips tongues and teeth gently tangling. The coppery tang of blood is more pronounced today, even through the unmistakeable aftertaste of the stronger indica hybrids and concentrates that she has been smoking lately to help counteract pain and inflammation. I want to think that the faint scent of decay is all in my imagination. "Hello."

"Hello yourself." Deftly she removes my coat and tosses it over a nearby bar stool. "So are you, like, gonna introduce your friend to me or what?"

I move toward the sofa where my companion has been mutely, patiently waiting. Unfastening zippers and snaps, I let her coverings fall away, baring her for Cosima's appreciation. "Cosima, permets-moi de te presenter Jacqueline."

"Very nice." Cosima reaches out a hand. "May I?" At my nod she caresses the satiny column of Jacqueline's neck, running her fingers along narrow shoulders and past the deeply indented waist to the outrageously feminine curve below. "Delphine, she's absolutely gorgeous."

Carefully she plucks a string with one finger. The resounding note seems to hang in the air. "Whoa, cool. I'm assuming she's named after du Pré?"

I smile as I remove my bow and a small disc of rosin from their various pockets on the soft case. "Yes. I was obsessed with her when I was younger and much more serious about playing." Tensioning the hairs, I check them over for any visible flaws; there's no sign of bow bugs, thanks to the lavender and rosemary sachet I keep in the storage compartment, but they're starting to look and feel a little too smooth — I'll need to send the bow to my luthier to be rehaired soon.

Looking around the loft, I find a sturdy wooden chair with a level seat at about the right height and set it in the center of the huge space, facing Cosima, who clicks a remote to turn off the stereo and curls up expectantly in a corner of the sofa. Perched on the front edge of the chair, I settle Jacqueline between my legs, aware as never before of the sexual connotation of this act: holding this most human of instruments is very much like embracing a lover, the comparison all the more blatant with my inamorata close by and focused on my every move. The Stahlhammer endpin I switched to several years ago allows Jacqueline to lie nearly horizontally against me, the upper part of her back resting against my sternum, her body cradled in my arms.

Quickly I tune her to herself, first to the harmonics, then to open fifths, trusting to my ear and not bothering with the digital tuner still in the case. Inhaling deeply, I hold my breath for a few beats, then release it along with any tension in my body. Letting the weight of my arm draw the bow, I feel the hairs bite into the strings for the split second before they overcome the pressure and resistance to sound the massive double stops of the opening recitative of the Elgar.

I'm going to regret choosing to play it for her, I realize almost immediately. I haven't played in a while, much less warmed up properly. Jacqueline is always recalcitrant when I've neglected her; now she makes me work even harder than usual to fight the tightening of my hands, arms and shoulders at the demands of the piece, especially going into it cold. Only a few dozen bars in and my fingertips are already stingingly raw, feeling every winding of each string. I'll be lucky if they're not bleeding soon.

But none of that matters. Not when Cosima is watching me so intently, her dark eyes wide, her beautiful face rapt.

The acoustics in the loft are superb: the high ceiling, hard surfaces and art materials tucked into every conceivable space collude to make my playing sound far better than it actually deserves. The threadbare rug does little to absorb the vibrations that pass in a continual cycle through Jacqueline's body into my own and down to the battered floorboards beneath my feet. Relying on the muscle memory hammered into me by the hundreds of hours I put in when I was studying the concerto, even though I knew by then that there was little chance I would ever actually perform it, allows me to immerse myself in the music while never losing sight of Cosima's response.

Being so acutely attuned to her distills into shattering clarity the atmosphere of disillusionment that pervades the piece, of pain so great that it cries out in its suffering, which make the moments of idyllic tenderness all the more heartrending. Too late, it occurs to me that it may have been a far more apt choice than I had intended. By the time I've played through the first movement, ending on the softly reverberating pizzicato low E, I am weeping silently.

I let my bow hand drop away. Cosima unfolds herself and stalks toward me in her bare feet. Brushing and kissing away the tears, she bends to claim my mouth. "That was fucking beautiful," she says against my lips, "and you are so fucking hot."

It's not exactly the kind of musical critique I'm accustomed to, but I'll gladly take it.

I break our kiss for a moment to lay Jacqueline on her side on the floor, resting the bow on top of her. Taking Cosima by the hand, I lead her back to the sofa, toe off my shoes and stretch out at full length with a voluptuous groan, encouraging her to drape herself over me. Carefully removing her glasses and setting them on the coffee table, I recapture her mouth, seeking entrance. Her lips part, welcoming me.

She pulls free the tails of my shirt and rucks it up, drawing complicated patterns with her fingers over my belly. I slip one hand under her sweater to stroke the planes of her back; the other slides beneath the waistband of her yoga pants to gently caress the firm smooth rounds of her buttocks. Tongues slow-dancing, deeply, lazily exploring and teasing, lips never ceasing their quest for solace, we lose long moments indulging in the pleasure of wallowing in the simple contact.

The sofa — Felix has a good eye; even with the ruined upholstery it's a nice Pearsall copy — is remarkably comfortable and Cosima fits so perfectly in my arms. Unable to stop myself, my jaw nearly cracks as I try to stifle a yawn. Mortified, I kiss her softly. "I'm so sorry. It's not the company, I promise."

"You've been working way too hard," she murmurs, kissing a path along my jawline. "You must be exhausted."

Leaning my head back to give her better access, I sigh as her lips seek out the sensitive spots at my neck. "I want your lab to be ready as soon as possible." _And I want to make it perfect for you_. "They've already installed the mainframes and the CO2 and LN2 lines; you have dedicated backup generators and your own bottle farm in the storage room next door. And yes, the extractor hood has been repaired. I ordered both the Affymetrix targeted genotyping system and the two-channel microarray, which should be installed by the middle of next week. Top of the line digital LCD microscopes, phase-contrast microscopy, RT-PCR, flow cytometry, 3D ultrasound, cryogenic freezers — "

Cosima cuts me off with a kiss. "You are so adorable when you geek out," she says huskily, nibbling at my lower lip, then moving lower to explore my rapidly expanding pulse. "But there's nothing more you can do about it until next week, yeah?" I nod. "So you've more than earned the right to just hang out with me and chill." Nuzzling into the angle of my neck and shoulder, she shifts her weight to lie on her side against me, catching hold of my left hand. Softly, softly, she kisses each of my abraded fingertips, then the angry red welt at the side of my thumb. "All better?"

I smile. "All better. My hands are not exactly in top playing shape right now."

"Mmm." She presses a kiss to my palm, lingering so I can feel the outline of her mouth. "I beg to differ." Her teeth worry gently at the fleshy mound at the base of my thumb. "I gather from Jacqueline's presence that you had your stuff shipped here from Minneapolis, Dr. Cormier?" she continues, kissing her way from my wrist up my forearm to the inside of my elbow.

Wincing internally at her deliberate little jab, swift and precise as a swipe from a cat's claws, I swallow my flash of hurt. There is no point in protesting, which would only come across as whining. It's the first time she's mentioned Minneapolis since we reconnected here in Toronto. _After everything went wrong_ , is the unspoken implication. _After you fucked it all up_.

"Yes," I say as matter-of-factly as possible. "I requested that a courier deliver Jacqueline to me in person; the rest is all in boxes at my new place." This one at least has a nice view of a downtown park and a huge terrace with built-in heaters that allow it to be used year round, but otherwise it is just as rigidly corporate and antiseptic as my last place.

"Straight out of Cold Bitch Digest?" she says, as if reading my thoughts.

"I'm sorry?"

"That's how Sarah described Rachel's hotel residence. Wouldn't surprise me if all Dyad's properties ran along the same lines." Loosely lacing her fingers with mine, Cosima kisses me softly again.

This newfound prickliness, this uneasy emotional tug of war is the hardest thing for me to adjust to as we try to find our way again on the shifting grounds of our relationship. Sometimes it seems that it would be easier to handle if she were openly hostile to me, like she was with Aldous the other day, each of them snarling at the other behind tightly polite smiles as they negotiated the terms of her contract.

What makes it worse is that nothing has changed to abate my attraction to her, my abject need for her presence, her touch. And from the flush of her face, the almost feral set of her mouth, the involuntary grinding of her hips against mine, the quickening of her breath and pulse, I know that she must feel the same.

 _Slow, take it slow_ , I tell myself. I reach to cup her cheek. She leans into my palm, nipping my thumb as I play it lightly over her lips.

"Did you get the approval from the University for your formal leave of absence?"

"Yeah. Dr. Hammill helped expedite things. Coughing up blood in front of your advisor kinda tends to make an impression."

I slide my hand to the nape of her neck, massaging taut tendons beneath silky skin and downy hairs so fine they seem to elude my touch. With a kitteny sigh, she leans her head into my shoulder, her face nestled into the curve of my throat.

"God, that feels so good. You feel so good." Her lips ghost butterfly kisses along my neck, making me shiver. "They're letting me finish my coursework remotely, so with the credits transferred from Berkeley I'll still be ABD by the end of this semester. I just owe them the balance of my tuition, and I can continue my research and work on my diss here. Haven't decided yet what I'm going to do with all the junk in my apartment, so for now I guess I'll keep paying the lease on it."

At least she has no financial worries. Aldous' offer, including a five-figure relocation stipend, was extremely generous.

Pressing my lips to her temple, I breathe in the scent of her hair, her skin, the faint trace of weed. I want so much to say, _Who cares about your doctorate? That's just a distraction! You need to focus all your energy, all that formidable intellect on getting well._ But I know better than to try to dissuade her once she has made up her mind on a course of action. Instead I change the subject. "Where is Felix? I was surprised when you said you would have the place to yourself for a while."

I can feel her evasion in the slightly-too-long silence, in the way her eyes slide to the side before locking on me. "He left yesterday morning. Said he had to go out of town for a few days." She closes her teeth on a tendon at the side of my neck, hard enough to mark me but not break the skin, then eases the sting with the tip of her tongue. "At least we won't have to put up with snide comments about 'lesbians shagging nonstop like randy minks and snail-trailing your minges over all my furniture.'"

The exact meaning of a couple of the words eludes me but the context is clear. I've met Felix only once but still I can vividly picture his withering disdain. Laughter bubbles up. "That is the worst attempt at a British accent I've ever heard."

Cosima rolls her eyes. "I know, I know. I'm terrible at imitations. Not like Sarah, she's the real chameleon of the family."

"Yes. She certainly fooled me at the Dyad event. For a few moments, at least."

"What gave her away?" she asks curiously, searching my face.

One hand still kneading her neck, I let my free hand slide down her shoulder and arm to lightly intertwine my fingers with hers."The hair, beyond the first glance. Far too much tension in her body, how she moves and holds herself. The way she kept looking over her glasses rather than through them. But most especially it was the way she responded — or rather, didn't respond — when I kissed her. Kissed you, I mean."

Up go her eyebrows. "You kissed her? At a formal event? She never told me about that."

I tip up her chin up to steal another kiss. Instantly her lips part, greeting me with the sweet sliding tease of her tongue. I could spend hours lingering in the demand and supplication of her mouth. "I would know you anywhere. Physical appearance aside, you two are nothing alike."

She deepens our kiss, shifting her weight to her arms to lie on top of me, insinuating one thigh between my legs. Despite my fatigue, I cannot help responding to her, heat flooding through me. Every nerve ending in my body is alive, not just from her touch but at the merest hint, the potential of her touch, the thought of how and when and where she will take me next. I can feel the thrum of our pulse quickening through the swelling of her lips against mine.

I tug at her sweater, suddenly needing to feel her skin. "Too many clothes."

"I agree." Cosima kisses me again.

We manage to wriggle out of our offending garments, tossing them haphazardly on the floor, over chairs, behind the sofa, though not without a lot of giggling and the occasional elbow or knee to a tender body part. My hands roam over her back, delighting in the shift and play of the long muscles under her skin, loving the slight weight of her pressing into me. An image pops into my head, accompanied by a renewed freshet of desire. "Turn over, chérie," I whisper in her ear.

Her head tilts, then she gives me _that_ smile. "Mmmmm, Dr. Cormier." No barbed edge to her voice now, just a growling purr. Carefully she flips onto her back atop me, her shoulder blades digging into my breasts until she finds the right balance, the rounds of her buttocks squirming delightfully against the top of my mound; her head rests against my shoulder, the mass of her dreads tickling my chin.

That her current position opens her entire body to the exploration of my hands is not lost on her. She raises an arm to wind her fingers into my hair, craning to kiss me. Something between a whimper and a sigh escapes her as I slide my hands up her ribcage and settle them beneath the small but sensitive curves of her breasts. I cup the smooth swells, making her nipples tighten instantly. Slowly, persistently, I work them with my fingers and thumbs until she is moaning and writhing under my touch.

Still teasing her breast with one hand, I slide the other down the flat expanse of her belly, enjoying the deep ripple of muscle beneath the smooth perfection of her skin. Her hips gyrate suggestively, invitingly, surging upward when I brush my fingertips through the dampened curls covering her sex.

She's not the only one who's dripping wet.

Kissing her temple, her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, I let my fingers delve deeper, circling but not touching the swelling jut of her clit, slowly dipping into the wet heat of her cunt, painting each fold and whorl with her slick heat. She braces her feet on the sofa, hips thrusting, seeking purchase or rhythm, her breath increasingly ragged against my neck. "Please," she whispers hoarsely.

Immediately I trap her straining clit between the vee of two fingers, rubbing and pinching slowly and increasingly firmly, flooded by a gush of wetness. Without warning I flick the side of my finger across the turgid little shaft, provoking a guttural cry. Not letting her settle, I do it again, just for the pleasure of feeling the jolt through her body. A wail tears from her chest as I relentlessly pump the plump little promontory, hard along the sides, softer around the very tip. Her body begins to tauten and shake, limbs and hips jerking frantically until she convulses, shuddering and gasping, her back arching into me. Her skin runnels with sweat, her come pouring thickly over my fingers. Greedily I absorb her every response, fucking her clit relentlessly. Just at that precise instant when it is all about to be too much, I move both hands to her hips, caressing the gentle swells as shudders continue to rack her body, soothing her and easing her down until she sags limply into the careful enclosure of my arms.

Heavy with release, she mewls in protest when I urge her to turn over again, but as soon as she does so her arms cling fast around me, her face burrowing into my neck. The absolute rightness of her embrace combines with my bone-deep tiredness to overcome the arousal still howling through me; I feel myself giving in to the consuming need for sleep.

At least for now, we can pretend we have all the time in the world.


	2. Where My Hand is Set, My Seal Shall Be 2

Something is tickling my nose.

I crack open one eyelid. There is enough ambient light from the streetlights and blinking neon glowing through the skylights and windows to be able to tell that it's obviously nighttime, but no indication as to what hour it is.

Now the tickling moves to my upper lip, which I scrunch up reflexively. Someone snickers. I open my other eye. Cosima, perched on the edge of the sofa and wearing only a loosely tied and very short satin robe that leaves little to the imagination, smiles mischievously down at me, plying the end of one of her dreads like a brush over my face.

Blinking out of the tousled disorientation produced by profound sleep, it takes a minute to get my bearings. A fleece throw covers most of my chest and legs but otherwise I am still naked. I'm a little too warm, so I move the blanket aside, earning a flash of white teeth from Cosima. Preening under her gaze, I luxuriate into a full cat stretch, every muscle tautening for a long moment and then slacking into fluid repose. Reaching out my hand, I rest it on her thigh, rubbing tiny circles over smooth soft skin and firm muscle. "Hi."

"Hi, yourself. Thought you'd never wake up," she says, leaning over to kiss me.

I smile into our kiss, wrapping an arm around her waist and tugging to overbalance her and pull her down. She laughs, putting up no resistance, curling over and around me and brushing weightless kisses over my temples, my eyelids, my nose, down the line of my jaw and back to the welcoming plunge of my mouth. My lips part, greeting her with the slow dance of my tongue sliding against hers.

"What time is it?"

"A little after 11:00."

"Merde!" I try to sit up but she stops me easily with a hand to my chest, pushing me back down.

Up goes a sculpted eyebrow. "Someplace you'd rather be?"

I kiss her placatingly. "Of course not. I just hate wasting time being unconscious when I could be doing something much more interesting with you." _To you. For you. By you_.

"Good answer, Dr. Cormier." Her tongue sweeps softly inside the curve of my lip. "But no one's keeping score here. We've got the whole weekend to... be interesting in. Figured I'd let you recharge your batteries for a bit before I jump your bones." Just then my stomach growls, loudly complaining. "Guess I'd better feed you, too, or you'll go all faint on me."

I realize that I can't remember the last time I ate. Cosima helps me up; thoughtfully she turns on the stereo and a few lights and busies herself clattering about in the makeshift kitchen area while I freshen up in the bathroom. The exposed feeling imparted by the flimsy partial walls and the bead curtain swinging in the doorway is just a little too bohemian for my comfort.

A jade green kimono with a garish floral print hangs on a hook near the doorway. I consider borrowing it, but I'm fairly certain it belongs to Felix; while he is evidently generous with his home and his belongings, that would be encroaching too far on his hospitality. Instead I opt for a towel, so old and thin it's nearly see-through in spots. It passes the sniff test, though, smelling of nothing but clean laundry; I wrap it around my torso, tucking in a corner to secure it.

Cosima is mincing an onion on the small bar counter next to the sink. From the way she uses the knife, deliberately and overly carefully, gripping it tightly far back on the handle, I can tell she's not a habitual cook. She turns and looks me up and down, a slow-curling grin lighting up her face. "I liked your other outfit better."

Draping myself around her from behind, I brush her dreads aside to kiss the back of her neck. "I did, too, but it's a little drafty in here." Softly I blow on the tiny hairs at her nape, smiling as the silky skin goose-pimples. "Like so. Although I have to admit the place is much cleaner than I would have expected of Felix. Boys in general, but especially the artistic types are not known for their domestic skills."

A soft sigh escapes her as I kiss my way down to her shoulder. "Alison must have been here recently. She's a holy terror for hands and knees scrubbing. We'd talked about her visiting me in Minneapolis but now I'm kinda glad she never got the chance. There's no telling what she would have done with all my stuff. Probably alphabetize and Beadazzle my weed stash."

I bite her lightly at the side of her throat and suck hard, then let her go, admiring my mark. Leaning on my hip against the bar so I can watch her, surreptitiously I smile –- she is as focused on her task as she would be for a delicate lab experiment. "What are you making?"

"Guacamole. It's, like, the one thing I know how to make without a recipe. Found some decent avocados at the John Street farmers market this morning. Not as good as the ones I can get at home, but they'll do."

The onion goes into a bowl along with the juice of a lime, which she squeezes by hand, running her thumbs inside each half to get out every bit of juice and some of the pulp. Two avocados sit on the bar counter, their wrinkly skins a green so dark they're nearly black. Picking up one of them, she cuts into it, then holds the knife still as she rolls the avocado around the blade until it has been sliced in half lengthwise. She separates the halves; holding the one that contains the pit, she whacks it with the knife, lodging the blade in the round stone. A quick rocking motion frees the pit, which she pinches off from the back side of the blade and drops into the trash. After quartering and peeling the bright green yielding flesh, she adds that to the bowl, then repeats the process with the other avocado. She shakes out some salt from its box into her palm, then tosses it into the bowl. Mashing the contents roughly with a fork, she scoops up a bit of the lumpy concoction on her finger, which she holds out for me to sample.

Curious, I lick it off. Instantly my mouth fills with intense flavors: the acid of the lime juice taming the pungent heat of the onion, enhanced by the just-right bite of salt, all of it balancing out the creamy, chunky butteriness of the avocado. I make an appreciative sound low in my throat and swallow, then swirl my tongue around her finger, sucking it and gently biting it long after every trace of the guacamole is gone. "Delicious," I say, letting go of her finger and kissing her deeply.

"Mmm, I agree," she says, the tip of her tongue playing lightly over the roof of my mouth. "The guac's not bad, either."

I nibble at her lower lip, tugging carefully. "Flatteuse impudique."

"C'est entièrement de ta faute."

"Ha!" I smack her lightly on the arm. "I knew you spoke some French!"

Cosima rolls her eyes. "Okay, you got me. I took it in high school, up through AP Lit my senior year. Could still read it, I think, but I'm not like fluent or anything. I can probably hail a taxi and order dinner, but otherwise I get way too self-conscious to actually speak it, especially around you."

"It's okay, you can practice with me any time. I promise not to make fun. Too much, anyway."

"No way, dude. When _you_ speak French, it's all lilting and lyrical and flowy and shit. Whereas when _I_ attempt to speak it, it comes out sounding like stoner Pepé Le Pew."

I have to laugh. Backing her against the bar, I gather her face in my hands, kissing her again, lingering, exploring, delighting in the tastes and textures of her mouth.

Her arms slide around my waist, pulling my hips toward hers. "Thought you were hungry," she murmurs into our kiss.

I brush my fingers over her cheek, trailing one hand down her neck, tracing the ridges of her collarbones to the leaping pulse at the hollow of her throat. "I am," I whisper, feathering a kiss below one ear to make her shiver. "But not necessarily for food."

Undoing the tie to her robe, I let the maroon satin fall open, kissing my way down her chest, brushing my lips over the softly rounded tops of her breasts. Her hands slide lower, pulling up on the edge of the towel to cup and knead my buttocks.

I reach for the bowl, using two fingers to gather some of the guacamole. Teasingly I dab a big glob on each of her springing nipples, then offer her my fingers; as she licks and sucks at them, I bend my head to take each nipple in turn in my mouth, the flavors now enhanced by tasting them on her skin.

Encouraged by the little noises she makes, hovering somewhere between a whimper and moan, I free my fingers and paint a line of guacamole down the center of her chest, following it with my tongue and sinking to my knees to continue kissing my way down to her belly button. Her hands fist into my hair, the deep muscles of her abdomen leaping and clenching as I circle and swirl within the little cavity.

Moving lower still, I shove apart her thighs and spread her with my hands, taking a mouthwatering moment to breathe in her scent before roughly swiping my tongue through her folds. Disjointedly I think that I have discovered the only ingredient that could make the guacamole taste better.

Her head bows, her knees almost buckling, and the hands wound into my hair tighten painfully as my tongue bypasses the already rigid swell of her clit in favor of the scarlet distension of her inner lips, the metallic-tinged sweet-salty-tangy flood deep within her cunt, until her hips are raggedly humping toward me as though fucking my face, her breath in shreds.

I pull my mouth free and give her a wicked smile. "I take it this means your hostessing duties can wait." Not giving her a chance to reply, I burrow my tongue into her again, saturating my senses with the scent of her sharp and rich in my nostrils.

"Oh, god, yes."

The words come out as a choking sob that I am quite sure wasn't intended to be in answer to my question. Grinning, I incline my head toward the swelling pout of her clit. The first touch of my lips against its sensitized surface elicits a moan of need from her throat. She cries out harshly, her hips jerking, her nails digging into my scalp in the effort to keep herself upright when I begin suckling lightly at the turgid little bundle; I rasp the flat of my tongue over it, torment her with the barest edges of my teeth. Keeping her legs spread by bracing with my elbows, I trap her clit between my tongue and upper lip and suck hard; she shrieks as she comes suddenly, unexpectedly, arching and writhing in my grasp, her empty cunt contracting rapidly and painting me with her release, shuddering again and again into my mouth.

Gasping, leaning on my shoulders, she twists her hips aside and feebly pushes me away. "Too much," she manages to say. Planting a gentle kiss at the top of her mound, I hold her through the shudders continually wracking her body, marveling at every nuance of emotion playing over her face until she sags to a halt at last.


	3. Where My Hand is Set, My Seal Shall Be 3

Sometimes desire burns too bright and hot to seek comfort, much less prudence: we wind up entangled on the floor with our fingers buried to the hilt inside each other, panting, dripping with sweat that makes our skin slide wherever we touch, clinging together and trembling from the aftermath of fury.

Carefully freeing my hand, I flop onto my back, gasping. Cosima rolls over, sprawling on top of me, glazing my thigh with her wetness, floating kisses over my neck and throat.

"Are you all right?" I say, my fingers meandering up and down her side, the curve of her hip, skimming teasingly over the narrow taper of her waist, along the soft weight of her breast pressed to mine.

She chuckles. "Says the woman who couldn't even wait to get me to bed before fucking my brains out."

"I don't remember hearing any complaints."

"That's because you didn't give me time to lodge any," she teases, kissing me softly, lingeringly. "Right now I'm so full of endorphins and pheromones that I could probably, like, undergo an appendectomy without anesthesia and I would barely notice it. Besides," she mumbles into my neck, snuggling closer, "I've got a really nice pillow. Firm and squishy in just the right places."

I press my lips to her temple, smiling. "Yes, but your pillow is starting to get uncomfortable — the floor is a little hard on my shoulder blades and pelvic bones. And I think I have cracker crumbs under my ass."

Raising up on her arm, she rolls my hip to inspect underneath it. "Nope. Cap'n Crunch. With Crunchberries." Sweeping away the debris with the side of her hand and briskly brushing my buttock for good measure, she sets me back down and burrows into me again.

"Sarah lets Kira eat that garbage?"

"Jeez, Dr. Cormier, judgy much? Kira eats oatmeal and fruit for breakfast. The Cap'n Crunch is Sarah's and Felix's." Her lips and tongue are doing enchanting things to the nerve endings in my earlobe. "I might've had some of it too, when I had a bad case of the munchies the other night."

Laughing, I look down, our bodies joined so closely they begrudge even the air any space between us. We are unequivocally a mess; though we managed to get most of the guacamole inside rather than on us, there are still traces of green here and there and both of us are decidedly sticky and grubby. "I could use a bath." I kiss her, my lips and tongue petitioning hers. "Care to join me?"

She smiles against my lips. "You just want to deprive me of my pillow." But she rolls easily to her feet and helps me stand. My arms encircle her waist to pull her in tightly, the curves of her body melding into me, her flesh searing my skin. Recapturing her mouth, my hands stroke her sweat-cooling back until finally, breathlessly, she breaks our kiss, her arms unwinding from my neck and shoulders and sliding slowly down to loosely tangle her fingers with mine. I rest my forehead against hers, and she cranes up to steal another kiss. "Right. Bath."

Towing me by the hand to the bathroom, Cosima lets me step into the tub first while she tucks her dreads turban-style into a towel. She notices me watching. "Washing my hair's kind of an involved process — takes like ten hours to dry, so I usually do it early in the morning." I move to sit but she stops me with a kiss. Rather than filling the tub right away, she picks up a handheld sprayer and attaches the connector end of the hose to the faucet; after the water has heated up, she plays the spray over me, the sensation like tiny gentle fingers all over my skin.

I take the sprayer from her and return the favor, paying special attention to her breasts and aiming the water teasingly between her legs, making her squirm. She reaches for a loofah, one of several hanging by hooks next to the tub, wetting it lightly and then adding a dollop of lemongrass-thyme shower gel. We take turns scrubbing each other, hands gliding over water-slick skin, rinsing and repeating the process unnecessarily until growing need makes it dangerous for us to remain standing. Kissing me softly, she washes every trace of lather from us and the sides of the tub, then inserts the drain plug and disconnects the sprayer from the faucet.

As the tub fills, I lean back against the sloping end. When the water level reaches to within a few inches of the top, Cosima turns off the flow and settles into my embrace with a contented sigh. Wrapping my arms around her slender frame, I let my hands roam freely, limning the firm swells of her breasts, the taut muscles beneath the flat expanse of her abdomen. With her head resting on my shoulder, my mouth easily finds hers, beckoning, offering, feasting. Cosima interrupts our unceasing kissing only to let out some of the cooling water and top up with more hot, then curls up against me.

"I think we've got this whole thing backwards," she says, nuzzling the line of my jaw and settling a hand along the curve of my ribcage, her thumb playing idly over the center of my chest.

Kissing her temple, my hands rub slow circles into the small of her back, grazing the very base of her spine to make her shiver. "How do you mean?"

"Most people start out with necking before going on to the fucking-like-crazed-bunnies portion of the evening's program."

"Are you going to insist on a refund for the price of your ticket?"

"Hell, no." Tipping up her head, she reaches to brush damp tendrils of hair from my brow, then slides her hand to the back of my neck to pull me into a kiss. "Worth every goddamn cent, and then some."

Time passes deliciously as we indulge in the interweaving of our lips and tongues, our hands wandering over every bit of flesh within reach. She tries to swallow a yawn; with a pang of conscience I remember that, unlike me, she has not had the benefit of a long nap. Unable to control the flare of my pulse, the rush of heat to my sex, I kiss her swiftly and then scoot over to the other end of the tub, settling her feet in my lap.

There is a motley selection of essential oils on a nearby shelf; picking out a bottle labeled peppermint extract, I pour some into my palm. Holding up one small neatly shaped foot, I rub the oil all over it and start by digging my thumbs into the digital flexor muscle, rubbing laterally and in tight circles, then extending and carefully twisting each toe until the little joints make tiny popping sounds.

When I slowly work my knuckles into her arch, Cosima groans. "Oh, my god, you totally missed your calling. Why are you so good at that?"

"For a while in med school, I dated a dancer named Christophe. He was in the corps at Ballet de l'Opéra de Paris. Like all dancers, he had disgusting feet — he always had ingrown or missing toenails and infected corns and these huge calluses on top of his first metatarsals that were constantly getting ripped open."

"Stop, please, you're making him sound totally irresistible," she says wryly.

Making a face at her, I flex her foot axially and rub my thumbs between all the tendons. "But he was so beautiful, and an amazing dancer. We weren't together for very long, though — he was terribly vain and self-absorbed, and he didn't understand why I had to spend so much time studying instead of being with him. Anyway, I learned a bit about reflexology and chiropractic adjustments from helping him recover after workouts and performances. You have some tightness in your plantar fascia, by the way."

"I know, I know. But I would never be able to live down the hippie chick stereotype if I started wearing Birkenstocks all the time. Mmmmm," she says as I apply firm cross fiber pressure to her heel, "can you just, like, never stop doing that?"

I press a kiss to her instep, smiling. "It might make going in to work a little awkward." Satisfied that all the tension and adhesions have been kneaded out, I let her foot slip back into the tub. Methodically I go through the same routine with her other foot; I would swear that I can hear her purr.

After adding more hot water, I slide back to the other end to gather her in my arms again. She snuggles into me, making a mewling sound into my neck.

"Delphine?"

"Yes, Cosima?"

"I'm kinda nervous about Monday."

"You have nothing to be nervous about, ma chérie," I say, stroking her back. "I've read your papers, seen the quality of your research. I know Dr. Hammill invited you to UMN specifically based on the strength of your study on post-translational protein modification in neural — "

"It's not the work. It's... well, I've always been immersed in academia — pure science, learning for the sake of learning, you know? And now I'm going to be part of this huge commercial entity where there's a high probability that any new principles or techniques or treatments I discover will be instantly commoditized, maybe even taken out of my hands before I've had a chance to thoroughly explore and understand them."

"If it's ownership you're concerned about, you should know that Dyad takes intellectual property very seriously; we retain the top IP and patent law specialists in every country where we have a presence. And unlike in a university setting, you will have unlimited resources at your disposal. Funds, equipment, consultations with top experts in every conceivable field, whatever you need, all you have to do is request it." Holding her closely, I decide not to tell her about the infamous "kill-switch clause" in the contracts and confidentiality agreements for members of Dyad's upper echelons, of which I am a newly minted initiate. It doesn't apply to her, and with luck it never will. She doesn't need to know, doesn't need to expend energy worrying about me.

"Hrmph. Unlimited resources, as long as I produce, right?"

"It's not like you wouldn't have been under pressure to publish while completing your doctorate."

"True. Mostly I just don't want to become an asshole, so totally convinced of my omniscience that I stop being curious, lose any sense of wonder about my discoveries and start thinking that I'm the ultimate authority on my little box of toys."

 _Like Aldous_ , I silently finish her sentence for her. _And the caricature of a scientist that he has become._

I kiss her forehead and hold her more securely against me. "I don't think that will ever happen to you."

After a long interval, during which I'm sure she must have drifted off, she stirs again, kissing me beneath my ear. "Are you still sleeping with him?"

"Cosima, no! Not since you and I started — "

Too late I realize how neatly she has maneuvered me into answering a question she hadn't actually asked.

From this angle I can't read her face, but her expression is as closed as I've ever seen it. She shrugs. "It's okay, I get it. I don't blame Leekie for being attracted to you, because... because, well, damn. As for you, you're young, ambitious, and when you're swimming in a shark tank like Dyad it's smart to attach yourself to a big shark as closely as possible. It's obvious that he's still got a thing for you and that he gives you a lot more leeway than any of his other associates. Were you in love with him?"

I have never felt so utterly dissected, so much like a bug impaled on a pin. Suddenly I'm not so certain that Cosima will have any difficulty adapting to Dyad's dispassionately ruthless corporate mentality. Once more I remind myself that she shares her genome with a streetwise hustler and also with a genuine psychotic trained as an assassin. "No," I say in a small voice. "But he never forced me to do anything I didn't agree to."

"Were you ever going to tell me that you'd been sleeping with him?"

"I don't know. Probably not." I take a deep breath. "I was ashamed to tell you. And I was afraid of how you would react."

"Fair enough."

Cosima falls silent for a while. I trace the intricate whorls of her nautilus tattoo with my finger. "What are you thinking?" I say hesitantly.

"Just free-associating. Something about that Sun Tzu quote, 'To know your enemy, you must become your enemy.'"

"Aldous isn't your enemy. Neither is Dyad. Neither am I."

Hitching herself upright, she straddles me and kisses me roughly, her hands winding almost painfully into my hair. "I'd really like to believe that," she says, her lips hard against mine. "But you should know that, even if you were my enemy, I'd still want to bone you."

She yawns hugely, spoiling the air of erotic menace. Despite the rawness of my emotions — like my fingertips earlier this evening, they feel as though they've been abraded one layer too deeply — I can't help laughing; after a minute, she joins in. "That's it, my little strategist, I'm putting you to bed."


	4. Where My Hand is Set, My Seal Shall Be 4

"I've never seen anyone park in this spot without their car's getting tagged with graffiti or having its windows busted out."

I cut a glance at Cosima. "I guess I was lucky I didn't know that." As I pull out of the alley and head west on Queen Street, I see a nondescript man in a nondescript sedan parked on the opposite curb; wearing sunglasses and an unremarkable button-down shirt, he doesn't look up from his phone or acknowledge us in any way but I'm certain that he is my designated shadow and inadvertent car babysitter.

"Felix said the store's only about a mile from his place. I don't see why we can't just walk," she says, petulant as she tends to be when she thinks I'm coddling her. She would probably be furious if I told her how adorable she is when she's cranky.

She would be even more furious if she knew that the reason we were driving now rather than walking was because I'd heard her coughing this morning when she'd thought I was still asleep, jagged spasmic coughs that wracked her nearly to the point of syncope. I'd smelled the acrid, skunky scent drifting in through the window from the fire escape where she'd gone to smoke; by the time I'd gotten out of bed, washed up and dressed, she was only mildly stoned and slightly pale but breathing tranquilly again.

"I thought that, after we go shopping, you might like to see how much progress has been made on your lab so far. It's not complete, of course, but it's come a long way from being 'obsolete,' as you termed it. And I need to stop by my flat to pick up some clothes and things. Afterward, if you like, we can go someplace for brunch."

"Fine."

Looking at her again, I try not to smile. She's not quite pouting, but her arms are crossed over her belly and she is staring determinedly straight ahead, little vertical lines furrowing above the bridge of her nose.

Adorable.

In a few minutes we arrive at our destination, which looks surprisingly low-key from the outside. There's not much traffic and I easily find a parking space just down the street.

"Hello, ladies, welcome to Come As You Are," says a very cheerful salesperson as we walk in. Definitely female, but most definitely not feminine: thick brush-cut salt-and-pepper hair, plaid flannel shirt with red suspenders, cargo pants tucked into combat boots. Blue-gray eyes sparkle behind rectangular glasses with chunky black rims. "Feel free to look around. We encourage you to touch and play with anything that catches your eye, but please remember that all merchandise is hands-on only –- we have a strict 'keep your pants on' policy. I'll be here to answer any questions if you have any."

Nodding my thanks, I take Cosima by the hand and wander through the front section. The store is beautifully lit, clean and spacious, with books and products on display shelves all over the bright green walls.

"The fun stuff must be in the back," she says, her fit of pique quickly forgotten as she eagerly tugs me forward. "Aha."

Aha, indeed. Vibrators and dildos in a dizzying array of sizes, shapes and colors line up on shelves along an entire wall of the rear section.

"Do you have a preference?" she asks, looking around.

I pick up her hand and wrap my thumb and middle finger around the base of her four fingers wedged together. "That size is perfect."

Her wolfish smile matches mine. She pulls me into a kiss, her tongue fleeting in its promise. " _Very_ good answer, Dr. Cormier," she says against my lips with a growl.

Once we've agreed on a few criteria –- no "flesh color," no fake balls, no suction cups, nothing glow-in-the-dark –- making a selection actually goes quickly. I find another one of similar design in a shorter, slimmer size, made of a very soft silicone over a firmer core. She tilts her head and looks a question at me as I add it to her basket; I give her the eyebrow and my most enigmatic Mona Lisa expression.

Finding a harness takes longer. "I have a custom made one, but it's at my apartment in Minneapolis," she says, somewhat disgruntled, looking over the assortment with a connoisseur's eye. Fingering a complicated and rather medieval looking contraption of metal-studded leather, she frowns slightly. "The workmanship on these just doesn't compare."

"Who did the work, if you don't mind my asking?" asks another salesperson, this one a ponytailed brunette in a black t-shirt and jeans who steps out of a low-walled office area next to the retail floor.

"Skeeter at Mr. S in San Francisco."

"Oh, she's amazing. You're right, even the highest quality mass-produced piece isn't going to match up to that. But I bet we can find you the next best thing." Briskly she takes Cosima under her wing; as they animatedly discuss the pros and cons of certain features, I stroll around the room, examining the wares on display.

It's all pleasantly prosaic. There are sex-positive messages everywhere, along with posters and brochures advertising workshops for everything from Japanese rope bondage to LGBTQ sexuality in persons of disability. I'm no prude by any measure, but most of my previous experience with buying toys has been online. I'd been more than a little apprehensive at the thought of actually visiting a sex shop, especially one recommended by Felix. Silently I apologize to him: given his protectiveness of Cosima, I should have known that he wouldn't have sent her any place sleazy or outré.

In a corner next to a tasteful array of crops, whips, paddles, floggers and ropes is a shelf displaying restraints and collars. I pick up a collar and breathe in its scent, the soft, supple leather warming quickly in my hands. Out of curiosity, I undo the buckle and try it on; it's well made and thickly padded, surprisingly comfortable around my neck.

Grabbing a classic riding crop by its leather-wrapped handle, I make a few whooshing passes with it through the air, then experimentally smack my palm with the tip. The sound is unexpectedly loud. I realize that Cosima and the salesperson have stopped talking, and that I have a captive audience of two.

Cosima blinks first. "Dude. If I were into BDSM, you could flip my switch any time."

"Totally," says the salesperson, looking me up and down appreciatively.

Mentally filing away the phrase to look up later –- something that occurs frequently when I am around Cosima –- I hang up the crop and remove the collar, replacing it on its shelf, then walk over to see what she has chosen.

"What do you think?" She holds up a harness in each hand. One resembles a pair of athletic cut briefs, appealing in its simplicity. The other is a starkly minimalist arrangement of black straps converging on a metal ring.

"That one." I point immediately to the minimalist harness.

Two pairs of eyebrows climb skyward.

"Access," I say succinctly.

Cosima's eyes widen; she licks her lips and swallows hard. Hastily she hands the other harness back to the salesperson and thanks her for her help. On our way up to the checkout counter, I grab a couple boxes of condoms, a package of dental dams and a large pump bottle of Maximus and add them to the basket.

I'm quite sure she's beginning to suspect what I have in mind. The images in my head are simultaneously disquieting and brain-meltingly arousing. My thighs rub together involuntarily, imparting a cat-in-heat sway to my gait. She notices and smirks.

We exchange droll looks as our purchases are wrapped in plain brown paper and then placed in a plain brown paper bag; I appreciate the store's discretion, but the process is elaborate almost to the point of parody. Adding a few samples of edible body paint, the cashier hands me the bag with a smile.

"It's not like everyone in the neighborhood won't instantly know where we've been," says Cosima as I place the bag in the trunk of the car. "Now. Am I right in thinking that you're planning on fucking me up the butt?"

Backing her against the passenger door, I brace my elbows on either side of her and lean in to kiss her deeply. "Yes. Unless you have any objections?"

She wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me tightly to her, her lower leg twining around my calves. "I don't know. It's not really my thing."

"So you've tried anal sex before?"

Nodding, she makes a face. "I had a friends-with-benefits arrangement with this guy at Berkeley. You know, hot enough to sleep with, not really interesting enough to date. Anyway, he kept pushing me to try it –- talked about it constantly, rented us a lot of porn. And one day we were drunk and high and I thought, what the hell. Don't remember much about it except that it hurt and he was done in about ten seconds."

"Quel connard nullissime! Ça lui a pris comme une envie de pisser –- "

Cosima cuts me off, her lips soft on mine. "Shhh, hey. It wasn't a big deal. Just didn't exactly inspire me to want to try it again."

Taking a deep breath, I try to calm down. "It infuriates me that that clumsy oaf ruined what could have been a beautifully profound experience for you because he had no idea what he was doing. I don't even know him and already I want to kill him." I slide up my hand to caress her cheek, which she rubs cat-like against my palm, planting a kiss at the base of my wrist.

"'Beautifully profound,' hmm?" She scatters kisses all over my face, finding my mouth again at last.

I kiss the curling corners of her smile and nod, losing myself in the depths of her eyes. "Done right, it can be, yes."

Winding the fingers of one hand thickly into my hair, her other hand stroking the nape of my neck, her tongue seeks entrance. My lips part eagerly to grant it to her, my body pressing insistently against hers, feeling the heat of her even through the thick layers of our coats. "Okay, Delphine. Convince me," she murmurs into our kiss.

Laughing, I trace the tip of my tongue over the outline of her lips, nibbling the temptingly plump swell of the lower one. I wedge one thigh between hers, feeling the shudder work its way through her body as I slowly grind it against her center. Brushing my lips lightly over the curve of her cheek, just closely enough to make the fine hairs stand on end, I kiss my way along her jawline.

"You know that there are thousands of nerve endings in and around the asshole. The barest touch of a tongue or fingers can feel like electric sparks shooting up and down your spine." Cosima shivers at the sense memory. I had discovered early on that simply pulsing the flat of my tongue against her little pucker would make her entire body jerk, and that I could make her dance by rimming her, not even entering her, just flicking and pressing and circling at the resistance of the spasming ring.

My lips tease the delicate shell of her ear. "It's entirely possible to come just from having your ass eaten, at least for me. Sometimes it's so intense that I actually pass out, especially since it can take hours and hours." A tiny moan escapes her throat.

"As sensitive as it is, though, the asshole is reluctant to be breached. It has to be patiently, lovingly seduced, but once it's warmed up and opened, it can be just as hungry, just as capacious as your cunt. The smallest motion inside it sends ripples of sensation outward until your bones and muscles and neural pathways feel like they are melting into a continuous writhing tangle of pleasure. And when you come –- "

With a strangled cry, she pulls me into a kiss hard enough to bruise. Her touch, her skin, her mouth, her scent are delicious, but I am burning for more. The glint in her eyes tells me she wants the same. "Take me home and _fuck_ me, Dr. Cormier."


	5. Where My Hand is Set, My Seal Shall Be 5

When I return to the loft from my quick trip to Loblaws, the padlock is gone from the latch. Resting on the floor outside the door is a pair of filthy boots that reek of a distinctly barnyard air. I haul aside the heavy panel to find Felix at home, sitting crosslegged in a chair and sketching. He looks up sharply, eyebrows swooping together in a frown. "She's asleep," he whispers vehemently. " _Don't_ bloody wake her up. Judging by the paraphernalia you left all over the bedroom and bathroom, you must have exhausted her."

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me blush. "It was mutual, I assure you." Shutting the door and slotting the screwdriver into place to secure it behind me, I examine him more closely.

He looks considerably disheveled, a state which I'm certain is not at all characteristic. Stubble mars the smoothness of his complexion; bruise-colored shadows emphasize the bags under his eyes. His hair is rumpled, his clothing wrinkled and stained. Two battered mismatched travelling cases rest next to his chair, his coat and scarf balled up on top of them.

Catching a glimpse of his sketchpad, I can see that Jacqueline, still lying on the rug where I left her last night, has been serving as his model. "May I?"

He's oddly self-conscious, but grudgingly allows me to peek over his shoulder. In study after study he has perfectly captured with quick rough strokes of his pencil Jacqueline's sinuous curves and lines; a more finished drawing shows the details and subtleties of her intricately carved scroll, even to the tiny nick she sustained years ago when a careless fellow student knocked the edge of a music stand against her. On another page he's drawn a Rubenesque woman with Jacqueline's exact proportions, lounging on her side in bed, strings and F-holes superimposed on her back. "I like these. You're really good, you know."

"That one's just a riff on a photo I once saw in a book — "

"Man Ray's _Le Violon d'Ingres."_

"Yes," he says shortly. "I suppose you've seen it in person."

"At the Getty, yes."

"Of course." Something indefinable crosses his face. "'D'Ingres,'" he repeats slowly. "I've never known exactly how to pronounce that, so thank you."

"You're welcome."

What little I know of his background tells me that he has probably not had much in the way of formal training, but the vast and varied collection of books on his shelves and the explorations of different styles in his artwork reflect the restless, omnivorous curiosity of the autodidact. He has this in common with Cosima, his recently "adopted" sister, though I suspect his defensiveness betrays that, unlike her, he is not entirely confident in his talent and knowledge. That he is being so polite and frank with me now is a genuine surprise, given the cattiness and dismissal he had shown in our previous encounter.

I hold up my shopping bag. "I was going to make dinner. It's nothing much, just something very simple, but you're welcome to join us."

Felix searches my face. I am careful to keep my expression as open and neutral as possible. "I'd like that, thank you. If you'll excuse me, I need to wash up a bit."

Bringing the bag over to the kitchen area, I root around to see what I have to work with. Despite its improvised and very much second- and third-hand nature, it's an unexpectedly well stocked space. If he had the means he would probably be the kind of cook who owns every gadget and obscure ingredient imaginable.

He returns, freshly combed and shaven and wearing clean clothes, as I open a large can of San Marzano tomatoes; crushing them by hand inside the can, I dump them and their juice into a saucepan, along with a heavy pinch of salt and a container of vegetable stock. Setting the pan to simmer on one burner of the hot plate, I rinse a large bunch of basil and strip off the leaves, enjoying the sharp anise-y scent as I set them aside rolled up in a paper towel. "Help yourself," I say, indicating with a lift of my chin the bottle of wine sitting on the counter. Wordlessly he fetches three stemless glasses and a waiter's key, smoothly levers out the cork and pours for both of us, then settles himself unobtrusively on a nearby stool to watch.

I find a grater and coarsely shred a block of Gruyère and a slim wedge of Comté. Opening a brown paper-wrapped package, I show him a pile of paper-thin slices of Serrano ham and give him a questioning look; he nods. From the shopping bag I pull out a crusty sourdough boule, butter, a jar of mayonnaise and another jar of coarse mustard, setting everything within easy reach on the bar counter.

While a knob of butter melts over medium-low in a small frying pan on the other burner of the hot plate, I slice the bread into six slabs, ripping up the heels of the loaf into ragged pieces and tossing them into the saucepan to let them break down in the simmering liquid. Spreading one side of each piece of bread with mayonnaise and then mustard, I mound a handful of grated cheese on three of the pieces, add a slice of ham to two of them, then top them with the remaining bread.

Transferring the largest sandwich to the hot pan, I smear the top with butter and let it sit, nudging the whole thing occasionally with a spatula to make sure the entire bottom surface browns evenly without burning.

I can hear that Cosima's moving around, so I reach for the blender. After surreptitiously checking the jar to make sure it's clean, I pour in the bubbling tomato mixture and add the basil, whirring it all together until it's thickly smooth and flecked with tiny dots of green. Returning the soup to the saucepan, I add a stick of butter and a container of heavy cream, stirring over low heat until they're both incorporated, then turn off the burner. After adding a dollop of tomato paste and a healthy shot of balsamic vinegar, I stir the soup again and taste it to check for seasoning, rolling the sip judiciously around my tongue, then nod to myself in approval.

Flipping the sandwich and pressing down on it with the spatula so that some of the melting cheese oozes out and starts to crust onto the bottom slice of bread, I am pleasantly surprised by the warmth of a small body curving against me from behind, strong slender arms encircling my waist. "Dude," Cosima says, her cheek pressed to my back. "I am _so_ gonna be walking funny for like the next week — "

"Ex _cuse_ me," says Felix plaintively. " _If_ you don't mind, my delicate sensibilities simply _can_ not stomach this display of wanton debauchery."

"Felix!" Letting go of me, she moves to give him a big hug. They whisper together urgently — probably about whatever is responsible for Sarah's unexplained absence — while I cut the sandwich in half with the edge of the spatula on a plate that's been warming in the toaster oven, then melt more butter for the other two sandwiches, which just fit yin-yang fashion within the frying pan. Finding three bowls, I ladle a generous portion of soup into each. "Silverware?" I say to the room in general, since the two of them are still absorbed in their hushed conference.

They look up at me, startled, like scolded schoolchildren. Felix points to a shelf bearing a skillfully mended celadon vase that holds mismatched cutlery like an abstract floral arrangement. I pick out three spoons and hand them around, along with the bowls. Cosima drapes her arms around my neck and kisses me softly but comprehensively; managing to turn off the hot plate before anything can burn, I willingly lose myself in her. By the time we come up for air, Felix has already eaten his sandwich, so I give him half of mine and serve him some more soup.

Cosima and I eat ravenously, not even talking; we finish disgracefully quickly, then lean together shoulder to shoulder against the counter nursing our glasses. "Is there, like, anything you're not good at?" she says, wiping up the last of her soup with a crust of bread. "That was awesome. I mean, how do you even pair wine with grilled cheese?"

"'Pinot noir' is French for 'goes with everything,'" I say, smiling. "But thank you. This is just subsistence cooking, though. Someday I'll make you a proper meal. You and Sarah, too," I add, addressing Felix. "That is, if you think she could get through it without kicking my ass."

He has the grace to look abashed.

"As for things I'm not good at... I'm terrible at telling jokes. Either I mess up the punchline, or I start laughing right before I say it. I can't fold a fitted sheet; usually I just take it straight out of the dryer and put it back on the bed. I'm hopeless at putting together flat-pack furniture — I always seem to have mystery pieces left over and no idea where they go, or I put the screws into the wrong holes so I wind up with something that looks like Escher designed while tripping on mushrooms. And I can't sing in front of people. In the shower or the car, yes, but something in my throat closes up if I have an audience."

Cosima and Felix exchange glances. "Drunk karaoke!" they say simultaneously, then clink their glasses together. "That's it," says Cosima. "Next karaoke night at Bobby's, we're pouring you full of tequila and getting you up on stage."

They insist on doing the dishes, so I go to the bed platform and change the sheets, tossing the dirty ones into the battered but presumably functional washer. Picking up my things, I place whatever doesn't fit in my purse into the now empty grocery bag. When I put away my bow and start to pack Jacqueline into her case, Felix clears his throat. "Would you mind leaving that here for a day or so? I'd like to paint it in the daylight. I'll be careful with it, I promise."

"You're leaving?" says Cosima, dishtowel and wineglass in hand.

I smile at her crestfallen expression. "I was hoping you'd come spend the night with me, chérie, and maybe the rest of the weekend if you like. I think I've imposed on Felix enough. And yes," I say to him, "Jacqueline can stay. Just please don't touch her bridge or her strings; if you need to move her, pick her up like this." I demonstrate how to hold her by the neck and the edge of her C-bout. He nods, watching intently.

Cosima gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. "Right back," she says. "It'll just take me a few minutes to throw some stuff together."

"Of course, chérie."

* * *

 _I've fudged the timeline a bit to get Felix home early, mostly because I couldn't resist having him interact with Delphine. Smut, smut, smut and more smut in the next chapter._


	6. Where My Hand is Set, My Seal Shall Be 6

"You know," says Cosima as she looks around the living room of my flat, "this is actually sort of not hideous."

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Is that what is known as damning with faint praise?" Walking over to the long rectangular gas fireplace that nearly spans one narrow wall, I hunt around until I find the ignition switch, which turns out to be inside one of the flanking built-in cabinets. The room fills with softly flickering light, reflections framed by expansive glass separating it from the enormous terrace that overlooks downtown.

"No, really. I mean, it's about as personal and distinctive as a hotel lounge, but it's got a lot of potential. Add some artwork, throw in a little color to break up all this unrelieved white and — dude, is the floor, like, _heated_? I may have to rethink the housing allowance part of my contract."

I have to laugh as she kicks off her shoes and removes her socks, scuffing barefoot like a small child over the wide polished granite tiles. "Yes, there is radiant heat flooring throughout the entire place." Enveloping her in a kiss, I smile down at her. "Make yourself comfortable, or as comfortable as you can in such impersonal, undistinguished surroundings. I'll be back in a minute."

In my bedroom, I thankfully shed my clothes in favor of a clean t-shirt and loose pull-on knit pants, not bothering with underwear. Running a comb through my unruly hair, I briefly assess my reflection, noting the marks at my neck that will need a good bit of concealer before I go back to work on Monday.

When I return to the living room, I am arrested by the sight of Cosima lying on her side on the deep pile rug in front of the fireplace. All the lights are off, the only illumination from the flames dancing and licking intriguing shadows over her body, which is naked save for her glasses and her rather impressive new appendage. The black leather straps of the harness frame her hips in stark contrast to the pale olive of her skin. Her hand moves slowly up and down the shaft, her palm circling the bulbous tip.

My mouth goes dry with want. "My dear Ms. Niehaus," I manage to say huskily. A line from an old Mae West movie floats unbidden to the forefront of my memory. "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?"

She crooks a finger to beckon me toward her, then resumes stroking herself.

I pull off my t-shirt and slip out of my pants, intensely aware of her eyes on me. Gently pushing her onto her back, I straddle her hips and lean forward to kiss her deeply, reaching down to displace her hand with mine. Her cock is warm and smoothly heavy in my grip, but its dry surface catches against my palm. I visit the abundant wetness pooling between my legs, ferrying it to her until my hand slips easily as I pump and squeeze her. Cosima props herself up on her elbows to watch, lips slightly parted; her glasses, I note with amusement and satisfaction, are starting to fog over. Absurdly pleased that my instincts have so far been on the mark, I slide lower, encouraging her legs to splay open so I can settle between them, lightly stroking with my fingers the trembling muscles of her thighs.

The heady scent of her rises sharply, making my mouth water. Grasping her cock by the bottom of the shaft, I slowly grind the base of it against her clit. Bending her toward me at a more comfortable angle, I wrap my lips around the head, tasting myself all over it as I curl my tongue around to lap languorously at its circumference. A choking sound escapes her; I look up, smiling mischievously around the considerable obstruction in my mouth, mesmerized by the burning intensity of her eyes.

Her hips gyrate and pulse in time with the rhythm my hand imposes on her, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. Bringing up my other hand to play my fingertips in her cleft, her arousal pouring over me, I tug gently at her nether lips, rubbing them, feeling them swell under the manipulation. Two, then three fingers slide easily into her, pressing wriggling curling twisting within her heat-slick channel; lying back on the floor, she anchors her hands in my hair as her hips flex and eel about. Mindful that she is likely still tender from my earlier ministrations, I circle the pad of my little finger around her asshole without entering it while sliding my thumb alongside her trapped turgid clit. Rubbing my thumb firmly back and forth, I am rewarded with a hoarse cry and a surging of her hips that drives her deeper into me.

She stretches the borders of my mouth, thin tears of strain trickling from the corners of my eyes as I swallow her until she bumps the back of my throat. Containing the brunt of her thrusts in my hand, sucking her noisily while my fingers simultaneously torment her clit, cunt and ass, it is not long before she is bolting into me, her breath shredded and heaving, blunt nails clawing at my scalp, shudders wracking her for minutes on end.

"Jesus fucking H. Christ," Cosima says, gasping raucously, her body going slack.

I pull my mouth off her with a wet pop and free my fingers from her clenching cunt. "Interesting theosophy for an avowed agnostic," I tease, snaking the tip of my tongue beneath the heavy base of her cock to fill my senses with her salty sweet tangy musk, provoking a half-hearted squawk of protest. Scooting up to lie at her side, I smear her lips with her come and greedily lick and kiss every trace away.

"'There is no religion higher than truth,'" she quotes, panting, wiping the tears from my face and then draping her arms around me. "But the truth is that my brain is leaking out of my ears, and therefore I should be excused if my grasp on the mysteries of being and nature is a little scrambled right now."

Smiling, I kiss her hungrily. "Then you won't be able to defend yourself if I take advantage of your debilitated condition." I sit up and swing my leg over her, guiding the broad head of her cock into my cunt and sinking down on its thick length until I am impaled halfway to the heart, moaning as my arousal flares into a full-blown tremor of need.

Her teeth flash in a wide grin, firelight glinting off her nose ring. "Oh, no, Dr. Cormier, anything but that." Hands reach for me, kneading my breasts, teasing my painfully taut nipples between her fingers and smoothing along my ribs, finally settling at my waist as her hips rock and circle to meet mine. Digging my knees into the dense padding of the rug, I ride her thrusts, swiveling at the deepest point of the down-stroke to burnish my aching clit against the base of her cock. I'm already so close, torn between wanting to draw this out, to revel in the feel and smell and sight of her, and needing so desperately to come.

As if sensing my dilemma, Cosima bends her legs and encourages me to lean back against her thighs, baring my clit to the delicious assault of her fingers — she at least has no hesitation in her intent. Repeatedly I push myself up with my hands flat against the floor, sliding back down into the relentless plowing of her cock. Shudders spiraling up my spine, my body begins to shake with tautening desire, my movements jerking out of control. Arching and bucking, my clit unbelievably hot and swollen under her touch, I cry out, convulsing frantically as I shatter apart.

Heart threatening to thunder out of my chest, breath rasping, I collapse forward to capture her mouth in a kiss. The shift in position makes my swollen cunt spasm, gorging wetly, absolutely bathing her with my come. Her arms enfold me, hands stroking and circling as I cling helplessly to her.

And then without warning she levers me onto my back, plunging roughly into me, trapping my wrists and raising them above my head to bring all her strength and slight weight to bear on her ferociously driving hips. Wrapping my legs around her waist to pull her still deeper, I rock my pelvis against her only to be slammed back to the floor again and again, ragged shrieks wresting from my throat and hers as we writhe in primitive frenzy until the crash and flood of release mingle with the sweat sheeting from our bodies.

Shaking, I let my legs fall from her waist to tangle with hers. "Fuck," she groans, sprawling heavily atop me.

"I believe that is the clinical term, yes."

She burrows into the curve of my shoulder, laughing. The trip-hammer pace of my heartbeat gradually slows. Muscles liquid from exertion, all I want to do is hold her, kiss her, taste her, meld her flesh to mine.

"That's another one," I say absently, my tongue seeking hers in a coiling, slinking dance, chasing the sweetness of her mouth, the complex blend of her come flavored with mine. Softly I let my hands roam over her back and flanks, delighting in the heat of her beneath sweat-cooling skin.

Cosima arches a brow. Somehow her glasses are still on, though slightly askew, which I find absolutely charming; with a fingertip I nudge them back into place. "Another one what?" She adds a swivel to punctuate the infinitesimal pulsing of her hips, making me groan.

Leaning my head back as she butterflies kisses along my neck, my hips instantly match her rhythm, the wet lapping of my cunt sealing around her cock and the hitching cadence of our breath the only sounds in the room. I am not done wanting her, it seems, nor she me. I do not think I will ever stop wanting her. My pulse is already quickening along with the movements of my body, but she maintains her maddeningly slow and subtle rhythm. "I'm keeping a running list of all the reasons being with you amazes me. I just added 'No refractory period.'"

She chuckles. "Clearly I haven't been doing you properly if you're only now realizing that," she says, biting gently at the junction of my neck and shoulder. "As a very wise person once said, no gal is ever quite as eager to as when she just has. What are the others, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

I caress the smooth warm rounds of her ass, feeling the bunching and gliding of the deep muscles as they work into me. Kissing the superlatively soft skin at her temple, I smile. "You're brilliant, and beautiful, and you never stop surprising me. You seem to know what I want and need before I do, before I have even managed to articulate my desire. You taste and smell much better than any man I've ever been with, especially when you come. Even when you sweat you smell good, like," I grope for an adequate comparison, "like warm melon in a newly mown hay field on a summer day."

"That's unexpectedly bucolic, considering I'm an unrepentant city girl. Must be all the weed." I can hear the smile in her voice. "Continue, s'il te plaît."

Caressing the base of her spine, approaching but not quite dipping between the cleft of her cheeks, I part my thighs wider so that the slender weight of her settles even more firmly against my sex. With a curl of her lower back that buries the entire length of her cock within me, she lingers for long seconds, making me exquisitely aware of its heat and hardness, my flesh molding to its every contour. I gasp when she starts to grind into me again. "It's nice to be spontaneous without having to take precautions about getting pregnant — unless there were some _extremely_ esoteric modifications to your genetic code that I don't know about, that is. There are a lot of others, mostly variations on a theme. Most of them involve being delighted and astonished by how well you know how to please me, and how much you inspire me to want to do the same for you."

Her lips take the measure of the rabbiting pulse at my throat. "Even with women who are into women, there are plenty of them out there who aren't as open as you are to, um, exploration. So... right back atcha." She kisses her way along my jawline; I murmur my wordless pleasure as her lips seek out the tender spot below my ear. "You haven't considered extrapolating your sample data to the populace at large?"

I blink. "Date other women, you mean? I can barely keep up with just you." Tipping up her chin, I kiss her softly, questioningly. "Do... do _you_ want to see other people?" I am unable to hide my hurt and worry. Anxiety trickles through me like ice water down my spine, spilling into my gut.

"I never used to be good at exclusivity," she says, brushing tiny kisses over my eyelids, down my nose, along my cheekbones. "Permanence always felt like a trap. Even before I found out about the clone thing, I always kept the person I was dating at a remove, always made sure they knew they weren't the only one in my life. And of course, now that I know that I'm mired in this monumental conspiracy, there's always going to be a big honking wall between me and just about everyone I meet." She nips the point of my chin, making me laugh despite my uneasiness. "Except, ironically, for you. Maybe it's a good thing you were so bad at the sneaky spy stuff. Get all that out in the open, like ripping off a bandage instead of peeling it off slowly and letting the wound fester."

"And they say romance is dying," I say, mustering a lightheartedness that I don't feel. "When did you know that I was your monitor?"

Raising herself up on her elbows so she can look down at my face, Cosima regards me with a small smile. "I suspected you from the beginning, when you just _happened_ to turn up everywhere I went. The library stacks, my favorite coffee shop, the sidewalk on my way to class, the CBS GTA office when you should have been over at MICaB. I knew for sure when you managed to contrive for me to meet Leekie twice within the space of a week, both of you cheerleading for Dyad throughout the conversation each time." She leans in to feather her lips over mine. "But I didn't expect you to call my bluff after I first kissed you; I figured you'd run back to Leekie and ask to be reassigned or whatever. And I didn't expect you to show up at my apartment the next day, much less — I mean, I was attracted to you from the start, because duh, but you kinda threw me for a loop when I realized you weren't just going through the motions."

"How could you tell?"

One corner of her mouth crooks wryly. "'Cause the pussy don't lie."

Laughing, a little hysterically, I wrap my arms and legs around her and hold her tightly.

"And I _really_ didn't expect you to get under my skin the way you have. Whatever reservations I may have... had about you, I still need you like I need air." She kisses me deeply, her tongue entwining languidly with mine, conciliation in the gesture.

The constriction around my chest loosens and dissipates as I willingly give in to the beseeching of her mouth. "So you're not trying to get rid of me in favor of some hypothetical other woman after all?"

"God, no. Just making sure that you haven't been tempted to, like, put theory into practice. Because you can't tell me you haven't thought about what it would be like with someone else."

I moan low in my chest as her hips resume their undulating rhythm. "I'm not sure that I'm ready to declare myself truly bisexual, but I do find myself looking at women differently now. There is this — I don't know her name, she's a redhead who works down in Bioprocess Engineering, I see her sometimes in the cafeteria. The other day she was sitting at a table by the window and the sunlight was slanting across her so that her skin looked like it was lit from within, and for just a second I wondered what it would be like to kiss the curve of her neck and run my fingers through her hair. Hypothetically speaking."

"Mmm, Dr. Cormier. Maybe I should be, like, jealous of all these hypothetical women. Because if you follow your attraction to its logical conclusion, you're going to realize that you have your pick of the entire population now."

"Perhaps. But," I shrug, "they're not you."

She kisses me fiercely and proceeds to fuck my breath away.


	7. Where My Hand is Set, My Seal Shall Be 7

Cosima's voice filters through to me as though from a great distance. As I gradually come awake, I realize I am clutching her pillow. Her side of the vast bed is empty and cool. Slowly I open my eyes.

The intoxicating scent of her lingers on my hands, on my lips, in my hair. I roll over onto my back, stretching from my toes up to the utmost reach of my arms as I grasp the wrought iron bars of the headboard, culminating in a huge yawn that ends in a stupid smile.

I inspect my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Every molecule of my being reverberates with the sense memory of her touch, but there are numerous physical manifestations in the aches and small injuries decorating my body as well: semi-circular marks of her teeth, faded now from scarlet to dull red, on the undersides of my breasts and around my nipples; the burning muscles of my thighs, previously underused and now overtaxed in ways and to an extent that I would not have thought possible before; the imprint of her fingers recorded in the shape of little bruises dotting the hollows of my hipbones, where her hands dug into me when she took me from behind.

Despite the carnal excesses of the past couple of days and the subsequent heavy languor drugging my limbs, I feel the stirrings of desire rekindling within me again.

Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say _still_. I cannot recall ever being in such a constant haze of arousal, so satiated without being entirely quenched.

Watching as my fingers lazily visit the swollen folds of my sex, marinated in my come and hers, my hips move as if of their own volition. I marvel that, as rough as we were with each other last night, there is only a little residual soreness.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon. I can see Cosima through the French doors that open out to the balcony off my bedroom. A blanket that I recognize as one from a pile in the linen closet is wrapped like a thick fluffy cape around her shoulders. She is pacing, one hand describing swirls and ellipses in the air with the joint tucked between her first two fingers, the other clasping her phone to her ear as she talks animatedly.

Her phone.

"Putain!"

Hurriedly flinging on my dressing gown, I half sprint to the kitchen. My purse is on top of the pile of boxes where I had dropped it last night. I pull out my phone and jab at the power button.

The battery is dead, of course. Plugging the phone into its charging cable, I swear under my breath until it finally boots up. The voicemail counter indicates several dozen missed calls, but I ignore them in favor of the text messages. Seventeen increasingly wordy and emphatically punctuated missives from Aldous, one terse line from Nealon. Quickly I scroll through them, skimming faster and faster with growing dismay.

I leave the phone face down on the counter to finish charging. Digging through my purse, I find a packet of Gitanes at the bottom. Shaking out a slightly crushed cigarette, I palm it and my lighter and go join Cosima out on the balcony.

She is leaning on the railing, watching the dog walkers and joggers wend their way through ravine paths toward the boardwalks around the ponds of Rosedale Park. I slide my arms around her blanket-draped waist and fit myself to the curve of her body, kissing the back of her neck and inhaling deeply. "Good morning, chérie."

"Yes, it is." Straightening, she leans back into me. "Everything okay?"

Her skin is incredibly silky and warm against my lips. "Mmm?"

She runs her fingers along my forearm until she reaches my lightly curled hand, tapping it. "I thought you were trying to quit. You haven't smoked in days. Is something wrong?"

"There's an unexpected delay in the delivery of the electrophoresis system and the thermal cyclers are on backorder for at least a week," I find myself saying. It's not exactly a lie — among my messages was an update from the requisitions manager on the equipment checklist for Cosima's lab — except by omission. I'm a little appalled by how easily I sidestep the devastating news I've just received and sequester it into a dark corner of my mind, to be examined and gnawed at later.

A small shrug. "Given all the shit you're dealing with to get everything in place, I'd think it would be more astonishing if there _weren't_ a few hiccups in the process."

"Cosima..."

I can feel her tensing at the change in my tone. "What is it?"

The desire to tell her wars with the even stronger desire not to burst the gossamer bubble we have created around us for the space of this weekend.

In the end, the bubble wins. "The sofa you wanted was sold out." _Coward!_ , says the tiny voice in the back of my conscience. _Telling her now will accomplish nothing other than making her worry and fret needlessly_ _,_ says cold logic and reason _. She will find out soon enough, and at this point there is nothing either of us can do about it._

She relaxes, taking my words at face value. "Now _that's_ unforgivable. Bastards."

"They did have a loveseat in the same line that they're sending instead, conditional on your approval. I think it will fit better than the sofa in your 'chill zone,' but we can always find something else if you don't like it."

"I'm sure it'll be fine." Turning in the circle of my embrace, she smiles as she drapes her arms around my neck and pulls me into a heated kiss. "Sorry, dude," she says when I am unable to hide my grimace. "These high-THC OG hybrids are effective as hell, but they kinda taste like gasoline and old tires."

I sigh dramatically and roll my eyes. "I knew it. You only want me for my ability to write you scripts for medical marijuana." Holding her tightly, snugging her hips against mine, I resume my leisurely exploration of her mouth and decide that either the stench of her joint is fading or my taste buds have been stunned into submission. Her tongue answers my every move, parry and riposte, invading and retreating playfully.

"Yes, that's it exactly. You've discovered my ulterior motive. Flavor aside, this is some seriously good shit." Catching my lower lip in careful teeth, she tugs at it and nibbles gently. "Can't believe I never thought of fucking my doctor before."

"Fichu gosse. Wait till I amend your prescription in favor of CBD capsules and a cannabis oil vaporizer."

"Wait till I pull a Lysistrata on you and leave you high and dry." Cosima slips a thigh between mine; I part my legs, exhaling a breathy moan when flexing muscle settles more firmly against my center. She quirks an eyebrow. "Figuratively speaking."

I capture her mouth in a long tender kiss. "I wouldn't last half an hour before giving in."

"Why, you're just a bee charmer, Delphine Cormier," she drawls in what I think is supposed to be a southern American accent. She grins as I incline my head toward her in puzzlement. "Another gap to fill in your pop culture education." Rubbing my back through the thin material of my dressing gown, she frowns. "You're freezing."

"A little." I take her by the hand and lead her over to one of a pair of chaises longues. Like all the rest of the furniture in the flat, it's upholstered in white fabiric in a vaguely Art Deco style. It's comfortable, though, especially when I pull Cosima down onto my lap and secure the blanket around both of us. I leave my unlit cigarette on the edge of the ashtray that holds the burnt crumbled corpse of her joint — how she manages to smoke them down to the crutch without singeing her lips is a mystery to me — and let my hands roam at will over her torso beneath our little tent.

She moans softly, kissing me as I stroke her from her ribcage to the smooth softness just below her navel, where I allow my hand to press briefly, reveling in the involuntary clench of her abdominal muscles. Shifting to lie on her side against me, her head comes to rest on the round of my shoulder, her mouth finding my neck and kissing and nibbling every bit of skin within reach.

I tuck my arm around her and bury my mouth in her hair. Her dreads are soft-rough against my lips, fragrant with the trace of her favorite tea tree and eucalyptus shampoo. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the shapes and textures and scents of her, the quiet sounds of breath on breath and skin on skin audible above the background noises beginning to arise from the neighborhood below.

Undoing the sash of her robe, I run the fingertips of my free hand up and down the length of her torso, lingering along the soft curve of her breast, teasing the deep indent of her waist, drawing little patterns over the generous swell of her hip. Cosima murmurs wordlessly in welcome and bends her head to kiss her way down my chest. I gasp as she tugs lightly at one nipple with her teeth, sending a jolt of arousal straight to my already pulsing cunt. In answer, I slip my hand between her legs to tease at her own simmering desire.

Her pelvis jerks, her folds turgid and slick under my touch. Still suckling and biting at my nipple, she slides her hand to brush my clit with the barest hint of pressure. "Don't you think we should go inside?" I say, my voice sounding strangled.

"Why, are you cold?" She looks up at me, mischief lighting her eyes as we plague each other with unceasing fingers.

Far from it. My body shimmers with heat, as does hers; the air beneath the blanket must be steaming by now. "I just don't think we should be putting on a peep show for the neighbors."

Grinning ferally, she gently traps my clit between her thumb and first two fingers and rubs it back and forth while moving it in tiny circles. I groan, mirroring her action and letting the sensations play over me in waves. "You want me to stop?"

"Fuck, no!" I manage to croak.

She increases the pressure; I do the same, moving with her, our bodies undulating in perfect synchrony. Bending to capture her mouth, I moan and whimper into our kiss, fighting the urge to grab her by the hand and plunge it into me to relieve the pressure that is rapidly becoming unbearable.

Her face flushes and she breathes jaggedly. Sweat is pouring off us now, every movement of mine provoking an echoing response from her. I feel her beginning to clench and ripple just as I do, our bodies arching and flexing helplessly, fingers never stopping, milking each convulsion as we come again and again, writhing together less frantically with each passing second, until at last we are at rest, listening to the rasp of our labored breathing.

Little tremors thread through every nerve and fiber of my being. I still my fingers against her clit, which like mine is come-glazed into throbbing rigidity.

"I think I've created a monster," she says, smiling blurrily up at me.

"Entirely your fault," I agree, panting. Fingers parting from their heated slippery embrace, I raise my hand to cup her face. I play my thumb over her lips, then watch as she sucks my fingers into her mouth one by one, licking them clean.

When she is done, I reach over to the side table for my lighter. She raises an eyebrow; I kiss it at the top of its arc. "I'm not going to smoke it. I just want to smell it burning, like incense." There is enough of a breeze swirling around the balcony to set the end of the cigarette glowing without my having to puff on it. Closing my eyes, I sniff the sweet and spicy aroma, the wisp of smoke evoking the taste of honey and raisins.

Holding her tightly, I try desperately not to think of the image of her clone now lying cold and stiff on a metal slab, ravaged by the same disease that is slowly consuming the solid warmth of the small body that clings so fervently to me.

* * *

 _Question for the room: has it been established on the show that Delphine is also an M. D.? I'm working under the assumption that she is, because otherwise it really doesn't make sense for her to be directing Cosima's treatment, among other things_ _. If someone can point me to a line or screencap that confirms this, I would be extremely grateful. Enquiring minds want to know!_


	8. Where My Hand is Set, My Seal Shall Be 8

Our lips part at last. I rest my cheek at her temple, reveling in how perfectly she fits snugged against my side. "What would you like to do today, chérie?"

"You mean aside from you?" Her mouth sketches a dotted line down my neck, unerringly finding the most sensitive spot at my throat. One hand rests at my ribcage just below the curve of my breast, her fingers idly stroking little fluttery tremors into my skin.

I chuckle, holding her close, rubbing slow circles over the small of her back. The sun is up now, casting a rosy glow through the low-lying fog that has not yet had a chance to burn off; the tops of the city's skyscrapers play hide and seek through the skeining clouds. "I have no problem with that. But at some point we're going to have to go find something to eat. We can either pick up a few things at the market or go out for brunch –- they take brunch very seriously in this town, it might as well be a blood sport. And I don't know about you, but I'm going to need a shower soon."

Cosima lifts the edge of our blanket and makes a show of sniffing. "Hmmm. We do kind of reek of sex. Lots and lots of juicy, messy, mad hot screamy girl-sex." She resumes her exploration of my neck. "Why is it that the only things you have in your fridge are bottled water and one very sad lemon?"

Lacing the fingers of her hand with mine, I curl them into a loose fist over my belly. "Sorry. I've been so busy lately, I haven't had time to go grocery shopping –- the water was actually already here when I moved in with my lemon. I don't even know when I'm going to have the chance to unpack. If I'd known in advance that you were coming to stay with me, I'd have stocked the deep freezer with Eskimo Pies." I drift absent kisses over her forehead, the fine curling tendrils along her hairline tickling my lips. "We never did get around to visiting your lab yesterday."

"That's because _some_ one distracted me with her feminine wiles and rogered me senseless for like the entire afternoon."

Smiling, I press a kiss to the satiny skin of her temple. "She must be a horrible person."

"Oh, she is." She nibbles at my earlobe, making me hum with pleasure at the gently teasing sensation. "A terrible, awful person. Made me come and come, wailing like a banshee the whole time she had her cock up my ass."

I place my fingers under her chin and tip up her face to kiss her, trying and utterly failing to look contrite. "It's a wonder you survived such wicked treatment."

Nodding solemnly, Cosima lets her eyes go wide. "And you know the absolute worst part?"

"Hmmm?" I tease the inner curve of her lower lip with the tip of my tongue.

"She refuses to do it again for at least a few more days."

At that, I burst out laughing; she joins in, giggling hysterically. "Pauvre chouchou, si méconnu et défavorisé." Kissing her softly, stroking the curve of her cheek with my fingers, I graze my thumb over her lips until she playfully traps it, worrying at it with her teeth, then letting go.

"Aw, c'mon, Delphine. Delphiiiiiiine," she wheedles. "I didn't even bleed, you took such good care of me."

"You might have microscopic tears or other injuries. For now the back door is firmly closed for repairs."

She grumbles adorably. "So who do I have to thank for your being such an authority on butt sex?"

Laughing, I dust a trail of tiny kisses over her eyebrows, along the arch of her cheekbones, down her nose. "My first lover, Philippe –- "

"Fee-LEEP?," she says with a smirk, exaggerating my pronunciation.

Narrowing my eyes at her, I pinch her side beneath our blanket, making her squeak in indignation. "Yes, his name was Philippe. He was very handsome in a dark, brooding way and terribly sophisticated, or at least my eighteen-year-old self thought so. After we'd been seeing each other for about six months, I found out that not only was he married and had two small children, he was also much older than he'd told me he was. But even though he turned out to be a complete shit, he was marvelous in bed. Which, of course, I didn't realize until several years and several lovers later."

"Wait, you didn't lose your virginity until you were eighteen?"

The look of astonishment on her delicate features is almost comical. "Practically a spinster, I know," I say, sticking out my tongue at her. "I was always too involved in my studies and music to have much time or energy to spend dating. How about you? Who was your first, and when?"

Cosima settles her head back on my shoulder, snuggling close. "Annalise Echols, when I was fifteen. Junior year in high school. She was a senior, captain of the soccer team. Had the most insanely gorgeous legs; you could see like every single muscle in them when she ran. Abs you could bounce a quarter off of. Killer dreads –- she was the reason I wanted to dread my hair. God, that was a pain at first. Hours and hours every day wrangling loose hairs with a tiny crochet hook, for weeks until the locs matured enough to stay tight on their own. I got really good at doing them while I was studying."

I squeeze her tightly. "It sounds like your hairstyle was more memorable than the relationship."

"Certainly lasted longer," she snorts, shaking her head. "It wasn't a relationship, it was a crush. And I was just another notch on her bedpost. After we'd been together for maybe a month, I walked in on her going down on the assistant coach in the locker room."

"That must have been mortifying."

"Nah, I got over it pretty quickly. Didn't hurt that I hooked up with this really hot girl named Morgan not long afterward. She was much more into me and a hell of a lot smarter than Annalise –- she thought it was awesome that I was hardcore about science and math and stuff like astronomy. I was taking some classes at Berkeley at the time, so she'd drive me there and back and then we'd make out like crazy in her car."

I knead the nape of her neck; she makes a contented little mewling sound against my throat. "Maybe my knowledge of the American educational system is hazy, but isn't fifteen a bit young to be a junior?"

"Says the woman who completed her MD/PhD and fellowship programs by the time she was twenty-seven." Her lips barely brush my ear, making me shiver deliciously.

"Yes, but unlike you, ma douce, I was a late bloomer in every way except academically. Look how long it took me to discover girls."

I can feel the shape of her smile against my skin. "I skipped a couple of grades in elementary school. Probably could have skipped middle school, too, but my parents were worried that I would fall too far behind developmentally."

"It's a shame that you turned out to be such a withdrawn, socially inept hermit," I tease.

"Morgan was actually a big reason that I _didn't_ turn out to be a withdrawn, socially inept hermit. She hung with a way more diverse and popular crowd than I normally would have associated with, so when we started dating, all of a sudden it was cool to be this geeky introverted brainiac who was years younger than everyone else.

"She was the one who introduced me to yoga. Weed, too –- once we smoked a bowl of Super Silver Haze right before yoga class and it was such an up, euphoric, energetic high that I really thought I'd reached an enlightened state of being."

"Until you found yourself concentrating on and becoming one with a stain on the floor?"

"Very funny. No, mostly I just got hornier and hornier as we went through the poses. Made her leave the class early so we could go fuck in the back of her car. I loved that car –- still have, like, flashbacks whenever I see a late-90s model Land Rover."

Much as I would like to stay cocooned with her on the balcony, the sun is by now getting uncomfortably bright and I am acutely aware of the increased stirrings of people in the surrounding buildings. Aware, too, that Cosima's hands are moving with more purpose under our blanket, reawakening the arousal that has never fully subsided during this entire weekend.

"Hey, Delphine?"

"Yes, Cosima?'

"Wanna go have juicy, messy, mad hot screamy girl-sex in the shower?"

I kiss her deeply. "I would love to."

* * *

"Dude, this looks like something NASA uses to launch rockets with," says Cosima, peering nearsightedly at the control panel. "Ooohhh, sauna setting!" She presses a touchpad; immediately we are surrounded by steam billowing through the gentle waterfall raining down from the huge rectangular showerhead recessed into the ceiling. Activating another control sends wide spiraling ribbons of water swirling around us in hypnotic patterns; yet another cycles the overhead LED lights through a dancing rainbow of colors.

I wrap my arms around her, holding her close, willingly losing myself in the depths of her mouth. Our hands roam over every square inch of skin within reach. She is all softness over heat and ever-surprising strength; I delight in the shifting and gliding of the long muscles of her back, the bunch and play of the rounds of her buttocks in response to my touch.

Her hands slide their way between us to encompass my breasts, making me gasp at the jolt that goes straight to my center. Slowly she takes each achingly hard nipple into her mouth in turn, exploring the textures, drawing helpless sounds of pleasure from me with every cat-rough swipe of her tongue, every carefully calibrated scrape and bite of her teeth.

She moans softly as my fingers slip between her legs, her arousal far thicker and hotter and wetter than the streams cascading over us. "Wait," she says, panting. "If we're going to be here for a while, we'd better turn the water down. Cali girl, remember. Even if there's no water shortage in this city, I still feel guilty about wasting it."

I bend to kiss her, smiling. "Don't worry, it's a recycling shower. It works on a closed loop: the water that goes down the drains is immediately filtered and purified and then pumped back up to the showerhead –- we could be here for hours and not use even five liters."

"Like the system they have on the space station! That's awesome." Her lips swell against mine until I can feel our pulse through them. "God, even your plumbing is hot."

Laughing, I stroke and tease her folds, her hips gyrating, body undulating and rubbing against me in unmistakeable invitation. I guide her to sit on the teak bench that rests along one wall. Reaching out to the rack just outside the door of the enclosure, I grab a fluffy white towel, fold it into a thick square, then drop it on the floor in front of her to pad my knees. Gently but firmly parting unresisting legs with my elbows, I spread wide the ripe split of her sex with my hands and admire the view.

Her plumply jutting clit peeks out from underneath its little hood atop the convergence of her labia, her cunt whickering for attention, the whole miniature landscape glistening and tinted in every shade of red from pink to scarlet to blood-dark. Unable to resist, I drag my tongue through the crease, circling the entrance to her cunt, teasing at her distended lips. Deliberately slowly, firmly, I ply my tongue over the silky promontory of her perineum ( _taint_ , I remind myself, a term I have recently learned from her), making her squirm. Shifting her thighs to rest on my shoulders to give me better access, I rim the neat pucker of her asshole, then press the flat of my tongue against it, wriggling it slowly back and forth, up and down, moving it in tiny circles until she is writhing helplessly and breathing in great ragged choking gasps.

Grinning to myself, I stretch out an arm to grab a bottle of lemon-sage shower gel and pour a liberal dollop into my hand. Pressing the pad of one finger to her asshole, which opens easily to let me in, I feel the powerful pulse of the muscular ring as I carefully work the thickly lathering gel into her, gradually letting it rinse away with each gliding stroke until she is literally squeaky clean. Replacing my finger with the snaking plunge of my tongue elicits a yelp of shocked pleasure; instantly her hips flex desperately toward my mouth, wetness pouring from her empty cunt and bathing the lower half of my face, wordless cries urging me on as I tongue-fuck her ass, plundering and swirling and tugging at the spasming ring that squeezes me almost painfully.

"Please..." snags in my hearing amidst the shredded ruin of her breath.

The guttural entreaty destroys my shaky resolve to prolong her torment. Pulling out of her ass, I move to wrap my lips around the pulsing swell of her clit, lashing it with my tongue and sucking hard, at the same time thrusting three then four fingers into the welcoming maw of her cunt until she howls, jerking and contorting as the crash and swell of release jags through her again and again. Shivery little temblors quake her entire body. Stilling my hand and resting my head on her quivering thigh, I smile up at her when her eyes are finally able to focus and find mine.

Cosima caresses my cheek with a trembling hand. Warm water pours over us like tropical rain. "Fuck, Dr. Cormier," she says, smiling beatifically, her chest still heaving, "you might have been a late bloomer but god _damn_ it was worth the wait."


	9. Where My Hand is Set, My Seal Shall Be 9

Even at this comparatively late hour, there is still a substantial wait. "About thirty minutes," says the hostess with efficiently practiced friendliness.

I exchange eyebrow shrugs with Cosima. "Cool," she says, taking off her coat and slinging it over her arm. "Geek Monkeys, party of two." The hostess writes it down without so much as a pause.

"Petit fumier." I swat Cosima lightly on her behind, letting my hand press and linger against the firm curve, then remove my coat as well, hanging it and hers on a convenient hook.

She wrinkles her nose at me. "Hey, _you_ spend a lifetime having people mangle 'Niehaus' in every way imaginable, even after you spell it out for them. Same with 'Cosima' — in Minneapolis, there's a Starbucks where all the baristas probably still think my name is 'Messina.'" Taking me by the hand, she tugs me over to a corner of the bar that runs along part of one wall. I lean back against its polished wood edge and pull her to me, enjoying the proprietary feeling as her hips slink close to mine.

Barely able to restrain my hands from slipping beneath her sweater, I distract myself by looking around at the small shoebox-shaped space, with its lime green walls and retro shabby chic decor. "This is cute," I say, having to pitch my voice nearly at a yell in order to be heard above the din of customers shouting to each other over the thumping music, the clatter of dishes and silverware, the sizzle and clash of busy cooks in the tiny galley kitchen. The furnishings are all comfortably mismatched, some clearly salvaged. Artwork adorns the walls, along with a handwritten sign that notes that all the pieces are by local artists and available for sale.

One in particular catches my eye. The huge canvas bursts with a riot of color, spray-painted graffiti style in a technique that conveys a startlingly vivid three-dimensional effect. Overwhelmed at first by sensory overload, I let my gaze dissolve into soft focus, allowing the visual cacophany to reveal itself here and there in sudden unexpectedly familiar contextual detail.

An abstract smudge in one corner, viewed at a certain angle, becomes the unmistakable shape of Cosima's right eye, complete with dramatically winged liner and the frame of her glasses and even a sketchy suggestion of her dreads; the rest of her face is obscured by a stylized double helix, the same one that adorns her laptop computer. A partly painted-over figure near the center resolves into a woman with long dark hair, viewed from behind as she holds the hand of a small curly-haired child.

Moving closer, with Cosima following, I peer at the lower right corner to confirm the artist's name. Sure enough, in bold spiky black letters: _F. Dawkins_.

I find his signature phallic imagery in the tentacles of a very cheerful little cartoon octopus, subtle enough to pass muster in the family-friendly environment of the restaurant. Its face resembles that in one of the recently completed portraits in his loft, of a smiling naked man holding a football in his lap.

"What do you think?" She slides an arm around my waist.

"I'm not entirely sure, but it's fascinating." I wrap my arm around her shoulders and kiss her temple, indulging in the softness of her skin and the scent of her hair. "Felix has a gift for composition and capturing a likeness in just a few lines. It has a remarkably compelling energy; I think I could spend an hour trying to sort all the layers and figure out the allusions." Bending, I brush my lips over hers. "But not right now. I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?"

"Want company?" She waggles a brow suggestively.

I roll my eyes. "We are _not_ going to have sex in a public bathroom."

"Don't tell me you've suddenly fallen victim to an attack of modesty and decorum," she teases.

"Far from it." I nip her on the tip of her nose. "I just really have to pee. Besides... eugh!" Letting go of her, I negotiate my way through the crowded space. Feeling her gaze on me, I glance back at her and confirm that she's staring at my ass with a decided leer. She raises her eyes to meet mine and makes a lightning quick obscene gesture at me with her tongue; there is an answering jolt to my groin, as though there were no physical separation between us at all. I glare at her and mouth the word _Brat!_

She smirks.

Of course there's a line in the back as well. Sighing internally, I resign myself to the wait, though the line actually moves fairly quickly. The restaurant's eclectic decor extends even here: a Herbie Mann album cover hangs on the door to the men's room, Roberta Flack with a magnificent afro on the women's.

By the time I return, Cosima waves to me from where she's sitting at a handkerchief-sized table near the wide window up front. She's playing with the salt and pepper shakers, which are shaped like a pair of cowboy boots. Our server comes to take our orders, leaving a large bottle of water for us.

My coffee arrives in a vintage milk glass mug. I can almost feel the caffeine hitting my veins as I gulp it down greedily — strong and full-bodied, nearly dense enough to chew and with just the right edge of bitterness, it's exactly what I need right now. She smiles, sipping much more daintily at her chai.

We share a fruit parfait, which is fresh and light and lemony and comes with half a cinnamon-raisin bagel dangling from the spoon. Cosima has cheddar and spinach waffles, substituting avocado for the bacon. "My only regret about being a vegetarian," she bellows hoarsely across the table. "Bacon is, like, totally my Kryptonite."

It's uncomfortable for her to try to sustain a conversation at this volume, and at any rate I am too busy eating to reply. My salmon sandwich is deliciously spicy with mango salsa and chipotle mayonnaise and brightened with a touch of cilantro. Luckily Cosima is as ravenous as I am; her waffles and poached eggs disappear almost as quickly as my sandwich, and in very short order she is mopping up a puddle of yolk with the last bite.

In one of those curious strokes of timing, enough people leave just as we are finishing so that the earlier racket fades into a much more convivial background hum, and we can finally talk without having to resort to shouting and hand signals.

"Much better," she says with a rueful sideways grin, nursing her tea. "Sorry, I should have known this place would be a madhouse on a Sunday."

Captivated as always by the tiny fine lines that parenthesize the curl of her mouth, I smile at her over my coffee mug. "I think it would have been a madhouse anywhere we went today. I like it here, though; I'm glad you suggested it."

She reaches across the table to clasp my hand. I lace my fingers with hers, playing the side of my thumb over the creases of her palm. "I did have an ulterior motive. That painting of Felix's? I bought it for you — thought it would be perfect for that long empty wall in the entranceway just off the elevator." Suddenly anxious when I don't say anything right away, she peers searchingly at my face. "If that's okay with you, I mean."

Leaning over to capture her mouth, heedless of the detritus of our meal, I kiss her beseechingly, trying to convey my surprise and gratitude and appreciation. The flash-flood of tension leaves her body as she opens eagerly to me, her tongue embracing mine. "It's better than okay," I reassure her, cradling her face in my hands and kissing her again. "Much better than okay. Thank you, Cosima. I can't wait to see it hanging in place."

"Felix says he's drawing you a special CoA for it, but that you shouldn't display it in polite company."

I smile against her lips. "Good thing I don't associate with any polite people, then."

"That is a good thing — hey!"

"I'm kidding, chérie. But when did you buy it? Surely not while I was in the bathroom?"

"Nope. That's who I was talking with out on the balcony this morning, before I was so rudely violated by this impossibly gorgeous and utterly insatiable blonde."

The burr in her voice tells me that I'm not the only one with thickening wetness between her legs. I linger in our kiss, letting one hand slide to the back of her neck, lightly stroking the warm satin skin. "Car. Now," I whisper harshly in her ear.

Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, the smooth column of her throat rippling as she swallows. "Front seat or back?"

My mouth roughens gracelessly against hers. "Your choice. I'd take you on the hood in full view of the street if you wanted me to."

"Mmm, Dr. Cormier," she murmurs, tarrying until her breath starts to catch, maintaining contact even as she stands and bends across the table, then breaks away, giving me a brilliant smile over her shoulder. I watch her collect her coat and walk down the block; when she reaches the car, I blip the remote to unlock it for her.

Our server materializes at my elbow, handing me the check on a small tray. "I would say, 'Have a nice day,' but it looks like you've got that covered," she says with a wink as she quickly gathers dishes into a neat pile and bustles them away to the kitchen.

I leave enough cash to cover the tab as well as a ludicrously large tip, drain the last of my coffee, then get up to follow Cosima, only just able to keep myself from breaking into a run.

Before I even reach the car, she has the passenger door open. Quickly she pulls me inside and hits the lock button.

It takes less than no time at all to register that she is completely naked.

"My dear Ms. Geek Monkey," I breathe, kneeling in the footwell between eagerly compliant legs. It's a bit of a squeeze, but she has reclined the seat and moved it rearward to its farthest extent to give me as much room as possible. "I'm beginning to suspect that you want something from me."

I toss my coat into the back seat along with her discarded clothing. Thanking the automobile gods for tinted windows, I brace my elbows on either side of her, pressing the length of my body against hers.

Hands deftly unbutton my shirt, pulling the tails free and letting them flutter open so she can caress my chest and back. "What was your first clue?"

Her nipples brush their tight rigidness against mine. The clear hazel of her eyes is obscured by dilated pupils, magnified through the lenses of her glasses to bottomless black. I can see her pulse bounding at the tender base of her throat. The scent of her arousal rises heatedly, surrounding us, far more alluring than the "new car smell" of the rental's interior. "Oh, there were one or two very subtle indications."

Catching her wrists and bringing them to her sides, I reach for the seatbelt and snap it closed across her lower belly, trapping her arms in place. She could easily get out of it if she wanted to, of course, but she acquiesces to the tacit message, watching me intently, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she waits for my next move.

I shrug out of my shirt and unfasten my bra, adding them to the pile in the back, then crawl back up to kiss her again, tasting, exploring. Traces of her tea lend a warm spiciness to the sweetness of her mouth. A small whimpering sound escapes when I break away to kiss my way down her neck, breath jerking from her body as I let my hair trail along her skin. Languidly swinging my head back and forth to play the strands over her breasts, I teasingly move away when she surges into the elusive contact, then resume only when she settles back into her seat. Paying homage to her breasts and nipples with lips and tongue and teeth, she is panting outright by the time my mouth makes its way with agonizing slowness to the flat expanse of her stomach.

Deep muscle undulates in response, her well toned arms cording tautly against the restraint of the seatbelt. Settling back on my heels, I swirl the tip of my tongue into her navel to make her laugh, then move lower. She shrieks when I slither my hair over the damp-darkened curls of her sex, followed by a strangled moan when I delve between her legs.

Sliding two fingers into the heat-slick channel of her cunt, its thickened walls clasp and pour around me as I curl and twist within her. With my tongue I stroke and circle the fat protuberance of her clit, deliberately out of synch with the thrusts of my fingers. Her hips churn and pump and swivel, fruitlessly seeking more harder faster, their motion limited by the confines of the space and the webbing of the belt across her belly. "Bastard!" she grits between her teeth when I slip my fingers free, licking off the shining traces of her arousal and grinning wickedly up at her when her eyes manage to focus on mine.

"My parents would be very surprised to hear that," I admonish, my hands roaming up the toned length of her torso to capture the graceful curves of her breasts, working the pebbled hardness of her nipples between my fingers until she is arching into my touch. "Brace your feet on the edges of the seat, chérie. Malasana, isn't that what the pose is called?"

Cosima grins, managing it with only a little shifting and fumbling, splaying the folds of her sex completely open to me. Bending my head, I let my tongue luxuriate in the thickest part of her her arousal, lapping at her labia, immersing myself in salty sweet tangy musk. Licking slowly upward, my lips close softly over her impudently swollen clit, making her buck into me with a hoarse cry. Tongue tracing ever-tightening patterns against her growing urgency, I let my hands drift back down, one cupping and kneading her powerfully flexing buttocks, the other dancing three then four fingers deep within the clutching pulse of her weeping cunt.

Her entire body shaking with unbearable tension, she sobs for breath as I absorb every quiver, every guttural howl, fucking her with my tongue and hands until she breaks, shattering violently apart into my mouth, jerking and shuddering helplessly, the vicious clench and release of her cunt squeezing my fingers bloodless.

Gentling my movements, I scatter kisses over the delicate skin at the junction of her hips and thighs until she spirals downward and the strident rasp of her breath begins to calm. Her feet drop with a muffled thud back down to the floor on either side of me. I release the latch of the seatbelt and rise on unsteady legs to gather her into my arms.

"Holy fucking shit, Dr. Cormier," she mumbles into my neck, clinging to me.

I kiss her gently, letting her taste herself all over my face. "Doing okay?"

"Yes and no. On the one hand, I just came so hard the top of my head is probably, like, somewhere in the trunk. On the other hand, this is getting kinda uncomfortable."

Laughing, I hug her tightly. "That's because you're not fifteen any more, chérie." Deepening our kiss, I stroke her back and flanks, feeling the heat of her beneath sweat-cooling skin. "Luckily for you, there happens to be a very large, very horizontal and much more accommodating surface waiting for us in my bedroom."

"That's a damned good thing. Because I am going to fuck your brains out." She nibbles at my lower lip. "Just as soon as my legs work again."


	10. Where My Hand is Set, My Seal Shall Be10

Before the elevator doors even close, Cosima has me backed up against a wall of the entranceway, my head thudding sharply enough to make the chandelier rattle. I barely notice, so all-consuming is our kiss.

Neither of us had bothered to attempt getting dressed in the car, only throwing on our coats for the brief trip to my flat from the parking garage. The layers of thick cloth that deny the melding of her luminous skin to mine are rapidly becoming intolerably maddening; quickly we shed them, leaving her naked, me still in my pants and boots. Her mouth and hands are hungrily rough, my body willingly trapped between the heated sinewy length of hers and the cool unyielding surface behind me.

Smooth blunt nails scrape up my sides, corrugating over each rib until her hands surround and possess my breasts, sending a shudder jagging through my body. My nipples jut marble-hard against her palms for a long breathless moment until she captures each of them between a thumb and forefinger, pinching and rolling slowly, making me whimper, the sounds muffled in the depths of her mouth.

I fumble at the buckle of my belt, my hands clumsy in their haste, but she catches hold of my arms, raising them above my head and bracketing my wrists in one hand to pin them against the wall. Any thought of protesting evaporates into a voluptuous sigh as she bends to close her teeth over first one nipple, then the other, alternating between them to bite and suckle at the exquisitely sensitive flesh.

Still inflicting delicious torment on my breasts with her mouth, she lets her free hand slowly slide down the plain of my belly, using the continually flexing roil of the deep muscles to slip her fingers beneath the waistband of my pants and graze them teasingly through soaked curls. My hips jerk inelegantly toward her, my cunt weeping its unabashed hunger as I fight not to simply tear my hands from her imprisoning grip so that I can smash her fingers harder against me.

My struggle does not go unnoticed. "Ah, ah, ah," she says, smiling wolfishly even as she lets me go long enough to undo my belt and slide it free of its confining loops; before I fully realize what she's doing, she has loosely knotted the soft worn leather in a figure eight around my wrists and hooked the buckle over the scroll of a convenient wrought iron sconce. Experimentally I tug at the sconce, leaning my weight against it. I am in almost equal measure pleased and dismayed by its solid immobility.

Our eyes meet and lock, hers asking a silent question, mine trying to convey nothing but assent and want. I nod once, slowly, to make my intentions absolutely clear. Reassured, she tilts up her head to kiss me, her mouth unexpectedly gentle on my lips as she unfastens my pants, then yanks them and my underwear down.

My hips twist of their own volition at the waft of air over my dripping sex as I spread my legs to their widest extent, straining against the cloth encumbering my ankles.

Cosima closes the short distance between us so that her body once again presses up against mine, grinding deliberately, her hands flat on the wall to either side of me. Lightly she runs her tongue up the line of my neck until she finds my mouth. Eagerly I open to her, our tongues tangling, circling, stroking, damping the shameless moans that tell her how perilously close to coming I am right now.

Breaking away, she kisses her way down my throat until she reaches the hollow, pressing soft lips there lingeringly, then moves to lick and bite at my breasts, marking me anew, making me arch toward her despite the stress on my shoulders.

Her hands trail down the insides of my arms, skimming the curves of my breasts to settle at my waist, using their hold to anchor her descent along my torso until she is kneeling between my legs. I look down at the neat furrows of the dreads ornamenting the top of her head; she lifts her eyes to hold mine just as she glides her tongue through the swollen, sodden folds of my sex.

Immediately my hips lurch toward her, swaying, beckoning, all but begging for the touch of her mouth. Parting me with her hands, she sweeps the flat of her tongue back and forth. The breath leaves my lungs for a lightheaded moment when she languorously licks up and down and side to side over the aching distension of my clit, gorged and slick with need after the monumental tease that has been building since earlier this afternoon. The empty hallway reverberates with the wet sounds of her mouth and the harsh rasp of my breath as she drinks in the rush of my arousal.

Her hands move to cup my buttocks, pulling me more tightly to her. Knees nearly buckling, my arms threaten to pull out of their sockets as she soaks her fingers in the copious pour from my cunt and lets them drift toward the cleft between my cheeks, lingering in the divide.

The position of my arms forces me to breathe in short jerky gasps. My hips cannot decide whether to surge toward her mouth or to encourage the damnably clever fingers circling my ass. Body taut as a bow, every muscle quivers with tension at the intensity of my response to her touch. I am too far lost in sensation to be able even to think.

Feeling the pad of one slick finger press against my rear entrance, I let the hook and my straining arms take most of my weight so I can relax my legs, pushing outward to easily let her in. My ass pulses helplessly around the slender intrusion, my hips writhing in little circles and grinding thrusts, every movement sending bewitching tendrils of pleasure up my spine. "More," I manage to say, not recognizing the coarse, raw growl in my voice.

She ghosts the barest kiss at the top of my crease. "You sure?"

"Goddammit, yes!"

"Tch. _Such_ rudeness." Her tongue circles my clit, making me stagger. "What's the magic word?"

"Now!"

Her mouth curls into a gleefully impish smile. "Your wish is my command." A second finger joins the first, then with a little more effort, a third, withdrawing and plunging through the pulsing cling of my ass. Her lips fix on my clit and begin sucking, not gently.

"Fuck, oh fuck! Yes, like that!"

A wordless howl echoes off the walls as uncontrollable spasms contort me, my entire body clenching and releasing, panting sobbing crying out, breath tearing from my chest. Her tongue massages my clit in a steady, constant motion, milking the shudders wracking my body, drawing them out and urging me on with the rippling of her fingers in the wildly contracting grip of my ass, gradually gentling her ministrations until each paroxysm is lesser than the one before, and at last I am still.

Time slows into sluggishly eddying swirls, broken by the harsh rasp of air from my throat. Dimly I recognize that my head is drooping forward, that every fiber of my being is spent. The muscles in my legs are useless. I sag against my bonds, twisting on her impaling fingers. I cannot feel my hands.

Carefully she begins working her fingers out of me, keeping me loose with the gentle laving of her tongue over my clit. I gasp hoarsely as the sudden absence leaves me hauntingly empty.

Strong arms wrap around me, easing the pressure on my aching shoulders. "Shhh," she whispers. "Let me." She slips the belt free of the sconce and undoes the now constricting ligature from my wrists, letting the wide length of worn leather slither to the floor as she braces her back against the wall and sinks us both down, cradling me in her lap.

My head rests helplessly on her shoulder. She litters kisses over my face, my hair. Gently she massages my wrists, my hands and arms trembling as blood and feeling course back into them.

"'Ce n'est qu'un peu de temps après que je vais me blottir sur son épaule rassurante et me plaindre à mon ami du mal trop cher que m'a fait mon amant,'" I murmur into the curve of her neck, tasting, scenting.

"What was that?"

"A line from Colette. It just struck me as being à propos."

Her body quakes with laughter. "Colette wrote about light bondage and girl-on-girl sex?"

"Girls, yes, though perhaps not about this exact situation."

Soft lips press against my temple. "You didn't mind? Me tying you up, I mean?"

"Aside from the fact that I still have ants in my arms and hands, no." I kiss the tender spot beneath her ear. "It was pretty intense, but I knew I could trust that you wouldn't hurt me." Inspecting the dark red marks banding my wrists, I snort. "Although I'll probably be living on ibuprofen and wearing long sleeves for the next day or two."

"Yeah, I'm not into the power scene. I don't mind playing a little roughly sometimes, but Dom/sub culture, not to mention all the variations of discipline and punishment and master/slave stuff? Not really my thing."

"You sound like you're talking from experience."

I can feel her smiling. "Younger and crazier days. Back then I figured I'd try anything at least once. Until I got involved with a woman who was way more into the topspace aspect than I was comfortable with. Sometimes a girl just likes to get tied up or spanked, you know?" She kisses my forehead. "Hey, Delphine?"

"Mmm?"

"My legs are kinda falling asleep. Do you mind if we move to the sofa?"

"Pauvre petit chouchou. Of course."

Carefully she shifts me to the floor and pulls off my boots and pants, then helps me stand. I am as wobbly on my feet as a newborn foal.

Leaning against her for support, I inspect the shallow but broad dent in the drywall where the back of my head had slammed into it at some point. "Well, I guess that answers the question about where I'm going to hang Felix's painting."

Slender arms wrap around my waist from behind; a puff of air warms the nape of my neck as she chuckles. "Not necessarily. Besides, if you hang it there, it'll throw off the symmetry of the space. I'll ask Felix to repair it before the art movers come on Wednesday."

"Felix, really?"

"Sure. He can fix anything — he's done all kinds of odd jobs to support himself when he's between, um, boyfriends."

Turning in the circle of her embrace, I bend to kiss her, tasting myself all over her mouth. She hums a contented sigh against my lips, then leads me to the long sofa in the living room, tucking a throw over me as I stretch out groaning into the comfort of its overstuffed cushions. "Right back."

When I open my eyes again, Cosima is smiling down at me. My head is pillowed on her lap. Her fingers absently run through my hair as she scrolls through texts on her phone. She's wearing one of my ancient t-shirts. I poke my finger through a hole in the thin cloth, tickling the silky skin of her belly to make her giggle.

"Sorry, chérie. I didn't mean to fall asleep on you. Literally."

She drops her phone to caress my cheek; I turn my head so I can press a languid kiss to her palm. "'S okay, you weren't out for all that long." Eyes soft and luminous behind her glasses, she flicks me a crooked grin. "You might want to get dressed, though. Felix is going to be here any minute."

"Merde!" I struggle to my feet and stumble to my bedroom, emerging after a quick wash wearing a t-shirt of similar vintage to the one Cosima has on as well as a pair of supremely comfortable but disgraceful sweatpants that I could have sworn I'd consigned to the rag pile ages ago. Gladly I resume my place on the sofa, contentedly settling my head once again on her lap.

My phone alerts me to Felix's arrival; the building's internal security app allows me to verify him through the lobby's camera and let him in to the elevator. He enters bearing not only a toolkit but also a large tantalizingly fragrant bag of Chinese takeaway and a battered leather military surplus backpack. "Good lord," he says, looking around the living room. "If I had to live with all this white, I'd be tempted to throw buckets of paint on everything."

"Dyad's idea of cozy interior decorating," says Cosima, scritching my scalp delightfully with her nails.

"Of course."

His eye is immediately drawn to the livid marks on my wrists. Taking in the location of the dent and the fresh scratches left by my belt buckle on the wrought iron sconce, he arches an imperious brow. "A couple of _some_ ones have been very naughty indeed, haven't they?"

We watch from our lazy vantage as he gets to work. Fortunately the dent really is quite shallow; no loosely attached pieces come away when he runs his fingers over it. Laying down a piece of thick plastic tarp to protect the floor, he uses a sanding block on the dent and the surrounding area, wiping off the dust with a clean rag. He loads a wide putty knife with drywall compound and applies a thin coat to fill in the dent, holding the knife at an angle to scrape off the excess and feather it out to the edges. I've had enough experience doing similar repairs on the old plaster walls of my parents' pied-à-terre in Paris to be able to see that he clearly knows what he's about. Hands on hips, he scrutinizes the site critically. "I'll come back tomorrow to sand, prime and paint it," he calls. "It'll look good as new. Unless you manage to bring the place down on your heads with your nonstop shagging in the meantime."

Quickly he cleans his tools in the utility sink in the laundry room, then joins us in the living room. We dive into the food, eating directly from the cartons and passing them around. I am unsurprised that they are both adept with chopsticks, far moreso than I, especially with my hands still stiff and slightly swollen from their extended period of impaired circulation. Cosima notices and makes a game of feeding me, which causes Felix to roll his eyes.

"Gawd, the two of you are going to send me into a diabetic coma. I brought you some clothes, as requested," he says to her. "Oh, and this is for you." Reaching into his backpack he pulls out a small rigid portfolio and hands it to me.

Opening the folder, I find the CoA for his painting. The usual information — title, artist's name, description of the medium, size, provenance, and so forth — is printed in minuscule type in the center of the heavy archival paper. The rest of the space is taken up by pen-and-ink drawings done in a bold graphic style reminiscent of Japanese erotic woodblock prints but far more frankly obscene, disturbing and arousing.

And personalized. I can feel my face flooding with heat.

Cosima leans against me, peering over my shoulder. "Um. Fee, dude. Why are Delphine's tits and cock like three times the size of mine?"

He flings his white silk scarf around his neck with a flourish while tossing his head at the exact angle to make his bangs fall just so over one eye. The elevator opens immediately at his press of the call button. "Artistic license. Carry on, my darlings." And with that, as well as a flounce that he must have perfected in front of a mirror, he is gone.

I have to laugh. "He does know how to make an exit. Now," I say, craning forward to capture her mouth in a kiss, "I may not be quite as impressively endowed as my illustrated counterpart here, but what would you say to reenacting a few of these positions?"

She smiles against my lips. "As a lifelong supporter of the arts, you bet your sweet ass."


	11. Where My Hand is Set, My Seal Shall Be11

I'm woken by a light tug that slides the October issue of JEM from my slack fingers. My hands are still a little stiff and awkward, though I'm glad to see the swelling has resolved and the marks on my wrists are already fading. "Petite peste! I was reading that!"

Cosima gives me a toothpaste-flavored kiss before she sets the journal deliberately out of my reach, turns off my lamp and saunters around to her side of the bed. "Through your eyelids by osmosis?"

"Very funny. It's a fascinating article, about transcriptional profiling of organ transplants in order to diagnose or predict reject — " A yawn that nearly dislocates my jaw undermines my protestations.

"Uh huh, that's what I thought." Chuckling softly, she slides under the covers, places her glasses on the nightstand and scoots over to tuck herself against me, comfortably slinging a firm, shapely leg between mine. Her head finds its place on the round of my shoulder, her dreads trailing behind her on the pillow; her hand lays claim to the curve of my ribcage just below my breast. My arm automatically wraps around her, holding her closely, her slender form radiating warmth. As ever, I marvel at how perfectly we fit together, at how absolutely right she feels in my embrace.

We have found that we both prefer to leave the blinds open even at night so that the twinkling lights of downtown can lend their subdued amber glow through the wide windows and balcony doors to the darkness of my bedroom.

"You don't think I'm being ridiculous about the bathroom thing?"

I smile and kiss the top of her head, nuzzling the varied textures of her hair, breathing in its scent. "Of course not, chérie. I grew up having to share a bathroom with two younger brothers, and then I went to boarding school. I didn't have my own bathroom until I was at Normale sup', living in a tiny studio apartment that would have fit inside the kitchen of this flat. The plumbing and fixtures were ancient and leaky and it had a shower like a coffin standing on end, but to me it was the ultimate in luxury. I certainly wouldn't mind sharing with you but believe me, I understand the need and desire for a bit of privacy."

"I'm not like squeamish about bodily functions or anything. I mean, I went down on you when you had your period."

"Which I greatly appreciated. I've never experienced a more effective remedy for cramps."

"And I have no hangups about peeing or pooping. I've studied Ayurveda, the analysis of poop is a big part of its philosophy. Though really I don't think anyone is more obsessed with poop than the French. One of my best friends in college wound up in an emergency room once during her exchange semester at the Sorbonne. The first thing the trauma resident asked her was if she had had a bowel movement that day. She was like, um, dude, I'm here because my bike got hit by a car. He still made her answer the poop question and describe the character of her stools in detail before he examined her."

"I solemnly swear that from now on I will do my utmost to suppress my French inclinations to ask you about your poop."

"Thank you. The point is that there are no mysteries hidden from me within your body. And it's not that there isn't enough space; we could hold ballroom dancing competitions in your bathroom. It's just... well, I've kinda had this night time ritual since I was a kid. I'm not, like, compulsive about it — depending on the circumstances I'll abbreviate it or skip it altogether — and maybe it's an only-child thing but it weirds me out a little if I do it with someone watching me."

"Tell me about your ritual."

"You're laughing at me."

" ... No, I'm not."

"I can hear it in your voice, like it's bubbling just under the surface."

"Okay, maybe I am. I'm imagining some rather interesting things."

"Perv."

"Your fault, chérie. You do seem to have, euh, stimulated my creativity lately." Sliding my hand up to the nape of her neck, I knead taut corded muscle and tendons beneath warm satin.

"Nngghhh." She burrows closer. "That is _so_ not fair."

"Ve haff vays of making you talk."

Cosima erupts into giggles. "'Vays,' you say?"

"Jawohl, Fräulein Niehaus, _vays_. Aber wenn du einmal aus der Reihe tanzt — "

"Holy shit. You actually do speak German?"

"My boarding school was in Zurich. Most of our classes were conducted in German. It's a little rusty, though; I haven't had much occasion to speak it in quite some time. While I was there I studied Russian and Japanese for a few semesters. I picked up some Italian, too, mostly slang from other students."

"Jeez. A lot of people would say that I barely speak English. Say something dirty in Italian."

"Vorrei chiavare quella bella fica."

"Mmm, Dr. Cormier. Do I want to know what that means?"

"Considering that you've been saying one variation or another to me and then admirably suiting word to deed all weekend, I would think you already do."

I let my fingertips rove over her skin, tracing random patterns and the occasional word into the smooth long planes of her back. She makes a contented little sound against my throat. "Someday I'm going to find out what you're writing there."

"Nothing bad, I promise."

"It's probably 'Cosima Niehaus likes taking it up the ass,' or 'Cosima Niehaus has a smoking hot French girlfriend,' isn't it?"

Softly I kiss her forehead. "Am I?"

"Smoking hot? Dude, you're like totally babelicious, bangin', bodacious — "

"I meant, am I your girlfriend?"

"Well, that depends." She lifts her head from my shoulder to kiss me, her mouth infinitely tender on mine.

"On what?"

Her teeth flash in the semi-dark. "On whether or not your definition of 'girlfriend' means that you're the first person I want to see in the morning and the last person I want to see at night, and the one I want to kiss until we're both dizzy and on the verge of passing out for lack of air, and the one I make fun of because you insist on reading every word of the instruction manuals for your appliances, and the one I listen to when you tell me about your day at work with all the classified bits glossed over only I'm usually not paying attention because I get too distracted watching you get undressed, and the one I want to get kicked out with from every restaurant we go to because we can't keep our hands off each other — "

" _One_ restaurant. We were asked to leave _one_ restaurant, not every place we've been to."

"Don't be so pedantic, you're interrupting my flow." Rolling on top of me, she settles between my legs and braces her weight with her elbows on either side of my head as she leans in to kiss me.

Unable to find words adequate to express my feelings, I return the kiss fervently, wrapping my arms around her torso, my hands roaming freely over the expanse of her back, molding myself to her.

Cosima exhales on raggedly uneven breath as our bodies begin a gentle rocking of their own accord, languidly writhing in sinuous rhythm. I cannot believe that the simple contact and pressure of her swollen clit and the slippery gliding of her dripping sex against mine can feel so exquisitely sensual. Experimentally I tilt my pelvis upward. "Oh!"

"Fuck, that's good," she whispers hoarsely in my ear at the same time.

I wreath my legs about her waist and lock them at the ankles, opening myself to her as much as possible and bringing every fold and crevice to bear into the unceasing subtle gyrations that stroke and incite our mutual need, so different from but no less powerful than the raw ferocity that has consumed us for most of the past few days.

My clit is distended almost to bursting, already beginning to thrum as each motion of our conjoined hips brings it into contact with hers, sliding wetly in the pouring of our mingled desire. I thrust my hips upward as much as her weight grinding into me allows, urging her on, my lungs constricting in arousal building with every passing second. I cannot tell where my flesh ends and hers begins. No longer in conscious control of my body, I abandon myself to increasingly delicious disorder as all my senses blur into convulsive exhilarated bliss.

Her body arches and flexes helplessly as I keep moving against her, setting off tremors in her sex that ripple outward and trigger her own orgasm. Mesmerized by the taut curve of her body, the plaintive heave of her chest, I redouble the bucking and heaving of my hips and inadvertently impel myself into another wave of rolling release. Panting and writhing together, the least movement provokes acute vibrations that waver precariously on and then plummet over the knife-edge of pleasure, again and again until only sheer exhaustion brings us to a juddering halt.

"Assez, chérie," I gasp, letting my legs fall away from her waist to twine with hers, encouraging her to sprawl completely atop me, her head resting in the curve of my neck. "I don't think I can come any more."

"Wanna bet?" Cosima musters enough energy to swivel her hips, stealing the air from my lungs and making me fight the whimper that wants to bleed from my throat.

"Brat!" Tilting my head, I capture her mouth, sweeping the tip of my tongue just inside the curve of her lower lip.

"Oh, yeah, that's a great way to deter me," she murmurs, reaching to wind a hand in my hair and deepening our kiss.

The world has condensed so that the only things in my consciousness are the precious burden of her body collapsed on mine, the glide of sweat-slick skin, the heady perfume of sex, the shattered rhythm of her breath hot against my neck, the fluttering spasms of my clit and cunt.

"Everything's so up in the air right now," she says after a while. "I feel like I'm drifting, like everything that's going on, everything that's happening to me isn't even real. Except for you. Except for this."

I tighten my hold on her, softly exploring her mouth, tracing with my tongue the outline of her lips. "Would it help if you kept some things here?" I say hesitantly. "There's far too much space for just one person. You could bring your stuff from Minnesota, there's more than enough room to store it all in one of the spare bedrooms until you find a place of your own. And you're welcome to stay with me at any time. If you want."

Carefully she nibbles on my lower lip, then lazily tangles her tongue with mine. "I'd like that, I think. I love Felix but staying at his loft is a little like living in a frat house — there's people in and out at all hours, usually because they're looking for a place to fuck. And someone's always belching or scratching inappropriately or challenging you to farting competitions."

"Somehow I can't picture Felix, euh, doing that."

"I was talking about Sarah."

"Ah."

"When she gets going, she can say the entire alphabet through one long burp. It's actually kinda impressive in a gross way."

Laughing, I kiss her again, then carefully shift her so that she is once again tucked against my side. She gives a little sigh as I resume stroking her back, trailing the very tips of my nails up and down on either side of her spine. Before long her breath is deep and even, with the occasional dainty slurping snore that tells me she is sound asleep. It occurs to me that I haven't heard her cough almost all day.

The angry insistent buzzing of my phone drags me back to full consciousness. Mentally cursing whoever would text me at this time of night, I reach for the phone and hit the power button to silence it.

The message from Aldous is marked **URGENT** : _Meeting with RD my office 7:00 am_

No further details. Crossly I revise my morning plans, including setting my alarm for an hour and a half earlier than I'd intended to get up. My brain sluggish, my aching muscles feeling as though they are moving under water, I spare a few seconds wondering what Rachel Duncan could possibly have to say to me at that ungodly hour before thankfully giving in to the syrupy pull of sleep, reveling in the feel of Cosima softly heavy in my arms.

* * *

 _Leads almost immediately into the emotional buzzsaw of "I Think it Mercy, If Thou Wilt Forget." Thanks for sticking with me through this, and for all the kind words!_


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